#he screamed all night while rattling the cage

[ghostie123]

Link (top row of both slides) with his full older sister and his full littermate brother. I’m so grateful that his sister’s mom saw Link, his dna and where we live and put together that she probably has his sister. We emailed Embark to run a relative test to confirm and confirm they did

Link was found as a stray so for nearly 2 years I’ve known nothing about who or where he came from. But I even have a few pics of their parents now. Unfortunately the people these dogs come from are pretty awful and sell a 5 week wolfdog pups to anyone who shows up with money, no questions asked. They’ve also sold pups with Parvo, who died days after being brought home. I scoured my state for breeders trying to see where my dog was from but as it turns out, they don’t have a website, they only post their puppies on craigslist, nobody knows their names or exactly where they live because they only meet up to sell the pups in public. After his sister was bought, her owner said she saw several people on craigslist trying get rid of the pup they recently bought bc they couldn’t handle them, one sister even ended up at a rescue. So it makes sense why I couldn’t find his family on my own, and why I found a 6 week puppy on the side of the road. I assume he was bought and a week in his buyer realized they werent able to deal with, or werent ready for a wolfdog, since he was found dehydrated and full of worms and ticks. But not starving, luckily

And man am I lucky that the puppy I didn’t know was a wolfdog for the first few months we had him (though we quickly grew suspicious) is generally a great fit for our family of his humans, our other 2 dogs and the kitten. And we’re a good fit for him 💕

[frozenlight-gvf]

It's a Scream, Baby

summary: (dom!jake x fem!reader) it’s the night before Halloween, and your boyfriend Jake takes inspiration from your favorite scary movie to fulfill a twisted fantasy of yours

word count: 5.8k

warnings: 18+ minors DNI— language, brief talk of murder/killing, masks (obvi), oral sex (m-receiving), bondage (handcuffs), blindfolding, overstimulation, fingering (f-receiving), penetration (f-receiving), period sex and blood kink... starts super fluffy then dissolves into filthy madness and then gets fluffy again

a/n: this resulted from marathoning the scream franchise, having impure thoughts about jacob, and all the blood talk on this hellsite... so enjoy this disgusting smut (also pls listen to gus black’s cover of “don’t fear the reaper”)

***

The scent of cinnamon swirled through the air, the essential oil diffuser working diligently to infuse every surface in the house with the cozy spice. Cold rain from a late-night October thunderstorm pattered on the windows. The sky outside was black and plastered with turbulent clouds, but you had never felt more at peace: wearing your favorite Halloween pajamas, you stood on a step ladder hanging up orange and purple fairy lights, casting your face in a colorful, festive glow. Even the screams coming from the shitty horror movie that you had on while you worked couldn't pull you out of your contentment.

The last of the lights had been hung, and you stepped down from the short ladder to admire your work. The living room was now softly illuminated by the stringed lights, the diffuser, and the jack-o-lantern you had carved-- the electric tea light inside flickered warmly; it couldn't replace a real flame, but you couldn't risk burning down the apartment you just started renting with your boyfriend. Not yet, at least.

Satisfied, you dusted off your hands and placed them on your hips. Then, you grabbed the remote that had been haphazardly thrown on the couch, putting a definitive, long overdue stop to the recently-released movie that everyone told you you simply had to watch, that it was the scariest thing they'd ever seen. You had given it an honest try, but once again, your theory that horror peaked pre-2000’s had once again rang true.

Your slippers-- which were covered in cartoon bats, matching the little ghosts on your soft, orange pants-- shuffled on the worn wood floor as you ambled towards the dark kitchen.

You opted not to flip on the lights, enjoying the lingering light leaking in from the living room. The digitized red numbers on the stove read 10:28. You were going to wait until you had company before you started the movie you really wanted to watch, but it seemed that he wasn't going to be home anytime soon.

The spark on the stove ignited a small woosh of flame, your unfocused eyes contemplating the tendrils that curled and licked at the chilled air. You hugged your jacket tighter to your body, trying to thaw the frost from your bones as you scrounged the cabinets for the Jiffy Pop you had bought specifically for tonight.

As you set the pan on the heat, the kernels rattled in their tin foil cage, slowly bursting one by one.

Just like the movie. You smiled, taking comfort in pretending to be in that world even for just a moment.

Suddenly, too much like the movie.

You jumped as the landline rang, rattling against the wall.

Rationally, you had a good chance that there wouldn't be a serial killer on the other end, but after all, Casey Becker had thought the same thing. You felt your heart beat quicker, blood surging through your veins. Scenes of Casey's losing battle with Ghostface flashed through your mind, picturing yourself instead of her with the knife buried in your chest.

Shaking your head, embarrassed at your shaking fingers, you answered timidly, "H-hello?"

"What's your favorite scary movie, pretty girl?"

"Jesus, Jake," you exhaled into the phone, clutching your chest, the voice of your boyfriend bringing you immediate comfort. "You scared the shit out of me."

"Hm, never heard of that one. What's it about?"

"You're hilarious," you said dryly, trying to hide the smile in your voice.

"So..." Jake started, doing his best to mimic Ghostface's rasp over the phone, "You gotta boyfriend?"

"I do, actually, his name is Jake. He's strong and he's handsome and he plays guitar in a famous rock band."

"He sounds perfect."

"He is, except he's not here right now, so I'm all alone and vulnerable," you said, coating the words with theatrical drama, but letting some disappointment slip in under it all. "I might even forget to check if the door is locked."

"Oh, no, well that's not good," he teased, picking up on your bit.

"I hope he comes home soon and saves me before I'm brutally murdered."

His studio session with the band had run really late, leaving you alone on the night before your favorite holiday. It stung, but you kept reminding yourself that it wasn't Jake's fault. And besides, the joy that decorating for Halloween brought you was enough to keep you entertained.

"I'll be home soon, darling. I promise I'll make it up to you," he paused. "Save me some popcorn."

"No promises, angel," you said, shuffling the the aluminum pan, the foil tent gradually rising. "Drive safe, please. Love you."

"Love you most."

You hung up the phone, flicking off the fire when your popcorn was done, slightly mourning its comforting warmth. You settled on the couch, cocooning yourself in a thick blanket, as you cycled through your purchased movies and selected Scream.

***

It was about midnight when you heard keys jangling at the door, briefly startling you as Sidney Prescott finished off Billy Loomis with a shot between the eyes. "Not in my movie," you moved your mouth to quote with her. You heard Jake sigh and set his bags down heavily in the hallway, guitar case clunking against the floor.

He called miserably from the entryway, "Hey, pretty girl, I'm so sorry I'm late, the session was-"

"Don't worry about it," you said, tossing the blanket off of you to stand up and meet him. You pressed a sweet kiss to the corner of his mouth. The tip of his nose was slightly pink and cold from the chilly October air. "I'm just glad you're here now."

"I know, but it's your favorite holiday," he whined, rubbing his hands up and down your covered arms.

You glanced back at the stove clock in the kitchen. 12:14 AM. "Well, now it is," you smiled weakly.

He hummed, looking down at you. "Happy Halloween, darling." He wrapped his hands around your waist, kissing you deeply as you felt any ire you held up against him melt away into nothing, leaving only fondness. "Mmm," he said, licking his lips once he pulled away, tasting the remnants of the salt from your snack. "Did you save any for me?"

"Nope," you said plainly, biting your bottom lip to hold back a grin. "But feel free to kiss me again if you'd like another taste."

Jake's second kiss was deeper, hungrier. He walked you backwards against the couch as his tongue swiped over your lips, trying to taste more of you. You happily granted him entry, letting him lick into your mouth, the pair of you breathing heavily. His cold fingers brushed the soft hair at the nape of your neck, holding you firmly against him, the sensation causing a tingle to run down your spine. Warmth was blooming in your stomach, and you felt yourself growing damp between your legs as he pushed his knee into those sensitive parts.

"Over the phone," he started, talking against your lips.

"Mhm?" you prompted, pecking him.

"I promised I'd make it up to you."

"Oh, yeah?"

"I've got a surprise," he said, kissing you again. "Wait right here."

He disappeared out of sight to the entryway where he had dropped his bags. The absence of him left you shivering. You stood-- slightly breathless-- exactly where he left you, leaning your hips back on the couch, anxious to see what Jake had up his sleeve.

After some rustling, Jake reappeared a few seconds later with an evil little smirk, holding something behind his back.

"What's this?" you giggled, genuinely curious about his behavior.

He coyly quirked an eyebrow. "Close your eyes."

You gave him a questioning look, but he smiled and rolled his eyes a bit, silently asking you to humor him. You sighed and closed your eyes.

"Jake, what is this?" Slightly exasperated, you wished he would just forgo all the games and fuck you.

After a few seconds, Jake spoke, his voice dripping with desire.

"It's a scream, baby."

You opened your eyes to Ghostface standing only a couple feet from you. A gasp shot out of you as you flinched backwards-- completely on instinct. But the fear that coursed through you soon dissolved into pure adrenaline once you cognized that it was Jake under the mask.

"Jake," you breathed, already starting to squirm, "are we finally doing this?"

You could hear him starting to breathe heavily under the mask. With tingling fingers, you reached for the buttons on his navy shirt— he had already done most of the work for you by wearing it sluttily half-open despite the fall weather. You licked your lips, hypnotized by the rise and fall of his smooth, defined chest.

“You wanna play psycho killer?” you quoted, the sound coming low and sultry from your chest. You slid each little pearlescent button from their respective holes on his shirt teasingly slow.

Jake nodded, the distorted white face moving up and down slowly.

You leaned in close to his ear once you had his shirt completely undone. “Can I play the helpless victim?”

Jake nodded once more, sealing your fate.

Arousal flooded your body as he slid off the slouchy zip-up hoodie you had hanging on your shoulders, revealing the dark spots of your hardening nipples under your white tank top. A barely-audibly groan came from under the mask, the rubber and fabric muffling any noise Jake made.

His sly fingers toyed at the sensitive skin right below the waistband of your fleece pants, making you pay for the teasing you had dished out to him earlier. You pushed Jake’s shirt all the way off of him, leaving his torso bare. The orange light in the room cast his skin in a warm, sensual glow. You hummed a sigh, beyond pleased at the situation you found yourself in.

“Living room or bedroom?” you whispered, running your hands up his body, resting them on his chest.

You had yet to christen-- so to speak-- the living room of the new apartment, so a sliver of you was hoping he would take you right there on the couch surrounded by all the festive decorations, but when he nodded his head back towards the bedroom, you knew he had something devilish planned.

Suddenly, he reached down to grab your thighs, scooping you up so your legs were wrapped tightly around his waist. He was always deceptively strong, making you feel like putty in his arms. You rested your hands around his neck, feeling where the ends of his soft brown hair emerged from the edge of the mask. In this new position, the urge to have his warm lips on yours again grew overwhelming, so you started to lift his mask up from the front, eager to see his pretty face.

Jake quickly slid one hand from his firm hold on your ass and grabbed your wrist roughly, stopping you in your tracks and pulling a surprised whine from your throat. He shook his head slowly, the grotesque face silently chastising you. You felt your core clench against his sturdy abdomen. Tonight was gonna be fun.

***

Jake carried you to the dark bedroom, and you stared into the mask's large black eyes the whole way, unable to see even a sliver of your boyfriend's face. He then tossed you on the mattress, jostling a yelp from you. The storm outside had long passed, and the clouds had parted to reveal the stereotypical Halloween night full moon. Its gray light slotted in through the open blinds, slicing through the blackness of the room. The cold glow lit Jake’s bare chest enticingly, and it made the bright white mask look even more haunting in the semi-darkness.

He crawled on top of you deliciously, leaning down so his head next to yours. “Remember our safe word, pretty girl?” his voice raspy, positively dripping with lust.

You nodded, “Wes Craven.” A smile creeped over your lips.

Jake sat up and nodded, clearly satisfied and ready to begin. Tingles fluttered through your skin; they started in your toes and snaked their way up through your legs, finding their destination at your throbbing heat.

You squirmed, unable to contain your desperation for his touch.

He climbed off of you and kneeled at the edge of the bed, tugging on the ankles of your pants. You lifted your hips so he could pull them off, leaving you in nothing but your panties and your barely-there tank top. You shivered in the cold air, your nipples perking up even more.

The night hadn't even gotten past a PG-13 rating, as Sidney would say, and yet, the tent that had formed in Jake's pants already looked painful. Forgetting your own pleasure, your mouth watered at the idea of taking care of his.

You slid off the bed and kneeled on the floor in front of him, so close you could hear his quickening breath. You tapped the tops of thighs to signal that you want him to stand up. Jake did so slowly, almost unsurely, looking down at you the whole time. With deft fingers, you made quick work of the button and zipper of his jeans, pushing the rough denim down low on his hips, not having the ability to tease him anymore.

His thick, defined print through his boxers almost made you moan. You ghosted your fingertips along his clothed length, in awe of him. He spasmed hard under your touch, making you gasp in surprise. There was no way he was already this sensitive.

You leaned forward, mouthing him through the cotton, creating a warm wet spot on the fabric. A pained groan sounded from above you, and you looked up to see that Jake had not moved his head the slightest bit, meaning that, under the mask, his eyes were still locked on you; he was taking great pleasure in watching you make a mess of his underwear.

Smirking, you pulled his boxers down, and he sprung free, bobbing appetizingly up and down. You were in disbelief at how hard he was already; Jake always got off on giving you pleasure, not the other way around. Could it be that he was enjoying your fantasy as much as you were?

You took his heavy length in your hand, his skin velvety-soft. Pumping him slowly, you traced the fingers of your other hand over his hipbone, considering your next move.

You decided to do something you'd never done before, just for the fuck of it. You had an urge to reward Jake for fulfilling this fantasy of yours. So, slowing removing your hand from him-- really wanting to make a show of it-- you brought your palm to your lips and spit thickly into it. A string of saliva hung between your mouth and your hand as you resumed stroking his cock, gripping him tighter this time. The muscles in his abdomen visibly flexed, and you could tell Jake was holding back a whimper from the choked noise he was making. He gathered your hair out of your face into his fist at the back of your head.

You knew he wanted to fuck your mouth, but you weren't going to let him just yet. You were going to savor this, assuming it would be your last few moments of being in control for the rest of the night.

You began pumping him faster, the slick of your saliva making the movement sickeningly easy. You rested your free hand on his thigh, feeling his muscles tense and contract repeatedly. As soon as he thrusted his hips into your hand, you broke all contact, making Jake exhale heavily, a whine sneaking in at the end.

Looking up at him and batting your eyes, you stuck your tongue out flat, moving it so that the head of his cock rested on it.

You flicked the tip of your tongue at that sweet spot under the head, and his dick twitched madly. You persisted your kitten licks, knowing that you were slowly swelling up his desire to throw you around and have his fucking way with you.

You wrapped your lips around his throbbing head, swirling your tongue around it and tasting the precum that leaked from it. You purposefully moaned loud and long so that the vibrations went straight into his dick, making him quiver.

Daringly, you pushed your mouth further down his cock, and the fist Jake had wrapped around your hair tightened, slightly pulling your chin upwards. Once your nose was brushing the soft hair at his base, you hollowed out your cheeks, pulling your head back and sucking him hard all the way up his shaft and back down again. His knees almost buckled.

You would have murdered the rest of the town of Woodsboro to see the pleasure splashed out on his face. His cheeks always grew so prettily pink, his lips red and parted, gasping for air.

You shamelessly ground your covered pussy into the floor, aching for friction. Jake noticed this, and he used the leverage he had on your hair to yank you away from him. You whined in protest, but he wasn’t having any of it. The realization sparked in your mind that the reason he stopped you was because you had almost made him cum. Already.

He pointed his finger stiffly to the bed, instructing you to get back on top of the sheets. You did so quickly and obediently while he tugged his pants and boxers all the way down and off, leaving him fully, stunningly naked, save for his silver medallion necklace and the Ghostface mask.

God, you had dreamed about this pretty much since you met the guy at that Halloween party back in college. You were a slutty vampire, and he was, of course, dressed as Ghostface, and you would have bet money that the mask he was wearing tonight was the very same one from all those years ago. The sentiment had almost distracted you from the feeling of his fingers fidgeting with the hem of your tank top. You nodded, thinking he was asking for permission to bare you to him, but he just kept rubbing the seam between pinched fingers. Humming with understanding, you sat up and reached to grasp the fabric where his fingers were. Closing your eyes seductively, you slowly revealed the skin of your torso bit by bit, inch by inch, letting your breasts be the prize you made him wait for.

Pausing in disbelief at the plucky acoustic guitar that had begun to whisper through the room, you swallowed hard as you listened close, praying you were hearing what you thought you were. A breathy, haunting voice began to sing,

"All our times have come,

here but now they're gone..."

The very same voice that serenaded Sidney and Billy in the movie.

Jake was setting his phone down on the bedside table right beside the Bluetooth speaker. You were hazily astonished by how he was able to do that in the time it took for you to take off your top.

“You... are…” you started, unable to hold back the arousal-soaked laugh that shook from you as his knees straddled your upper thighs, “unbelievable.”

He said nothing as he tucked a finger in the waistband of your panties and ripped them off of you, making you gasp at the sudden roughness that punctuated the serene, yet painfully arousing music. He held up the pathetic strands of fabric that your underwear had now become, dangling them so that you got a good look of what he could do to you. You hummed a moan behind closed lips, loving the overt display of dominating masculinity. Tossing the ruined panties aside like the garbage they now were, he touched the pad of his thumb to your bottom lip, pulling it down and prying your jaw open. The action dizzied you with seduction, and you let loose a loud, uninhibited moan, giving him just what he wanted as his fingers dipped into your wetness and brought them up to rub small circles on your clit.

The fire inside you was scorching every crevice, your edges smoldering. You were more than happy to let Jake take you all the way to the edge and over it just with his skilled fingers, which you knew he was more than capable of doing. But that’s clearly not what he had in mind when you felt his weight suddenly absent from the bed. Your eyes lazily blinked open to stare at the ceiling when you heard a drawer open, knowing that there was a whole variety of things he could be grabbing to use on you…

Ghostface reappeared in your field of vision, necklace and hair dangling a foot or two above you.

As well as the strip of black silk and the fuzzy handcuffs he was holding.

You were so overcome with anticipation that your vision went blurry, the back of your head pressing deep into the pillows.

“Wow," you gulped, gasping for air, "you’re really running with the ‘psycho killer’ theme, huh?”

You did your best to hide it, but your voice betrayed exactly how turned on this made you.

Jake nodded tantalizingly.

First came the blindfold. Once the cold silk was tied securely around your eyes, the rest of your senses were instantly enhanced; you felt every fiber of the sheets beneath you, and you could even faintly smell the cinnamon wafting in from the living room.

The handcuffs came next, but not before Jake took both of your hands and pinned them above your head. He closed one of the soft loops around your left wrist, the clicking sound and the almost-too-tightness sending a flood of arousal through you— you were surely soaking the sheets by now.

You heard him thread the free loop through the bars of the headboard and close it around your other wrist, hissing at the sensation. You tested your new range of movement, finding it deliciously limited. Your clit prickled with pleasure, knowing that whatever happened next was out of your control. You'd put up a good fight, but now you were thrilled to just lie down and take what was coming to you.

“Alright, pretty boy,” your voice silky with pleasure. “Do your worst.”

He let you lie untouched for a moment, your need growing rapidly.

Then, his fingers attacked to your hot center, rubbing up and down your folds, collecting the wetness that had gathered.

You whined when his fingers left you once again, starting to regret wanting this. He could tease you and edge you like this for hours.

What hit your ears next had you gushing. There was an obscene slurping sound as Jake sucked your slick off his fingers. The vulgar noise alone caused you to moan loud and long, your hips writhing.

He stilled your movements with a strong arm across your pelvis, pressing you down into the bed as he punished your clit, rubbing harder and faster, his fingers lubricated with his own spit. You felt your legs start to go numb, your chest and face flushing hotly.

You couldn’t help but wonder if Jake still had the mask on even though you couldn’t see it; the only reason he'd have it on now is if he wanted it. But when he finally pushed a finger inside you, a groan escaped him despite his best efforts-- still muffled by the rubber.

When he brushed the pad of his finger against your g-spot, you let out a high-pitched moan. The stimulation was divine, but it wasn't near enough to get you off, which you needed more than you needed oxygen in that moment. You desperately wiggled your hips under his arm, desperate to be more filled. He acquiesced, pushing a second finger inside, stretching you delectably. Jake started to pump in and out, rubbing the pad of his thumb on your throbbing clit.

You were submerged in euphoria when you felt a warm liquid drip down from your pubic bone and into your folds-- Jake had spit on you. Like you were some dirty slut. Fantasizing about being fucked by a masked serial killer? Yeah, you were a filthy whore. And you loved it. Clearly, so did Jake.

A pitiful whine slipped past your lips as Jake picked up the pace, pumping and rubbing faster and harder, the pornographic squelching noise it made had your mind going numb. The blood in your veins had seemed to be replaced by pure liquid pleasure as the feeling of Jake’s fingers on and inside your most sensitive parts shot you ever-closer to your looming peak, threatening a vigorous collapse.

“Jake, please,” you pleaded. “Shit…need more,” you panted. You meant that you wanted his thick cock shoved deep inside you, but he simply kicked up his fingers a notch or two, sending you hurtling straight into the wall of your high, but excruciatingly unable to climb over it.

“Fuck, Jake!” You grappled with your restraints, wanting nothing more than to grab his wrists and pull him away from you. The pleasure was way too much. Pathetically overstimulated, it took you way too long to realize that Jake knew exactly what he was doing to you.

“You’re evil,” you sobbed, tears soaking the black silk over your eyes. Your mind couldn't understand or perceive anything but Jake’s merciless fingers at your cunt, the sensation beyond unbearable.

Just before you thought you were going to explode into fire, leaving nothing but ash and cinders, Jake relented.

Tear-stained and absolutely dripping wet, you were sure you were a sight to behold.

“Fucking bitch,” you spat, trying to catch your breath. It took you a good minute to remember where you where.

You then felt his strong palm come down hard on the side of your hip, sending you right back up into the stars. “Ow, Jesus, Jake!” you shouted, swallowing hard. But you both knew how much you liked being smacked around. His hand soothed the red mark he left.

His thumb gently brushed your cheeks, drying the tears that had flooded beyond the silk covering your eyes.

He grazed his hand from your chin, down your exposed neck, to your collarbone, and down to trace where the swell of your breasts began, obviously reveling in the image of your naked body all tied up and leaking for him. You felt his calloused fingers pinch one of your hard nipples while his free hand kneaded your other breast, making your back arch up into his touch, feeling divinely sensitive. A whine left your throat, your hips bucking pitifully.

His hands dragged down the sides of your waist and hips, finally settling and digging his fingers into your skin. You inhaled sharply as you felt his throbbingly hard cock run through your folds, sending shockwaves up to your head, fogging up your mind once more.

“Please,” you whispered a prayer, hungry for his cock.

Stars exploded behind your eyes when suddenly, Jake forcefully thrusted into you all the way, not giving you even a moment to get used to his size.

Your whole body was attacked with tingles, that familiar heat growing in your stomach again when you felt Jake lean over you, shivering at the feeling of the cold metal of his necklace landing on your chest. The heat and softness of his bare skin on yours felt so intimate compared to the outrageously obscene slapping sound that was erupting from between your two pelvises. Your pussy was exponentially wetter than normal, attributing it to the arousal of your long-time fantasy playing out on your favorite night of the year, as well as Jake’s talented cock brushing your g-spot with each quick snap of his hips, leaving you a moaning, blubbering mess.

“Jake, please, I’m almost there, I need more.” You had the urge to reach down and rub your clit to skyrocket you to your peak, momentarily forgetting your restraints; the sound of the metal chain that connected the loops rattling against the headboard along with your desperate whines seemed to encourage Jake. He started thrusting into you even faster and harder. One of his hands left your hips, and before long, his pointer and middle fingers were pushing past your lips. You sucked on them eagerly, moaning around them as you greedily swirled your tongue all over his skin, tasting his salty sweat and your own lingering arousal.

Sufficiently slicked, he pulled his fingers from your lips with a ‘pop,’ bringing them down to rub your clit hard. At this point, you were screaming in pleasure, writhing against your restraints, chanting Jake’s name like he was a god. He was everywhere; on top of you, inside of you, within you. It was overpowering.

Your toes began to curl as you felt yourself teetering on the edge you wouldn’t be able to come back from, about to be launched into the most extreme pleasure you’d ever felt.

“I’m about to cum, Jake, fuck!” you sobbed, breathing so heavy that your head started to spin.

One more particularly expert thrust of Jake’s hips sent you screaming into the deep, vast abyss of unimaginable pleasure. Your walls clenched like a vice around Jake’s cock, wetness flowing out of you. Your whole body went white-hot numb, making you forget your existence in this reality.

All the while, Jake was still thrusting into you, riding you through the waves of you unbearable euphoria.

Blinking hard, your breath gradually slowed as you regained feeling in your body. Jake was caressing your hips, helping to bring you back down to earth.

Once your breathing evened out, you felt him peel his torso off of yours, the both of you damp with sweat.

“Shit,” you heard him exclaim breathily— the first time he’s spoken this whole time— the single word drawn out in pure incredulity. The click that followed was him turning the dim bedside lamp on.

“What? What is it?”

“See for yourself.”

He removed your tear-soaked blindfold, your vision blurry and stinging from being in total blackness for so long. You squinted as your eyes adjusted in the low lamplight to see what had Jake so amazed.

Streaks of red were splattered between you, painting the both of you with fresh, dark blood.

“Oh, fuck, Jake, I’m so sorry,” you gasped in utter disbelief and embarrassment. “I didn’t know I was starting, or else I wouldn’t have-“

You trailed off as you watched Jake remove the Ghostface mask: his brown hair was disheveled, eyes half-lidded and lips open, visibly stunned. He tentatively dragged his fingers across a particularly thick streak of blood on his stomach and held up his hand as he watched it drip down over his palm. He was entirely dumbfounded, like there were no other thoughts in his mind except your blood on his skin. He pulled out of you, still hard and twitching.

You watched in hazy awe as Jake began to slowly pump his cock, using your slick blood to glide over his length. His eyes were locked onto to his streaked fist. Gradually getting faster and faster, his breathing quickened and high-pitched moans and whines started to slip past his fucked-out pink lips. He threw his head back, and the sweat on his flushed neck glistened in the low light. His eyebrows furrowed, concentrating hard on his impending release. He grunted deep and long as he came on your already-painted stomach, shooting hot and hard.

His chin fell to his chest, every ounce of his energy drained from him as he collapsed back to sit on his heels.

“Holy fuck,” he whispered, still breathing hard and admiring the red blood marring the pale white flesh on his hand and his cock.

You didn't have the words to express how turned on you were. You simply stared at him as he sat between your shaking legs.

"Oh, shit, I'm sorry," he breathed, wiping his bloodied hand on his waist and sliding off the bed, rushing to your side to release you from your handcuffs.

He took your hands and kissed both of your wrists, your soft, sweet Jakey resurfacing. Without a word, he scooped you up into his arms, carrying you towards the bathroom.

***

As the warm water of the bath Jake drew for you soothed your aching muscles, the fog in your brain slowly dissolved into bliss. You watched as steam swirled around the white-tiled room. Jake, having quickly cleaned off and changed into a sweatshirt and flannel pants, had returned from the kitchen with two classes of cold water. He passed you one as he kneeled beside the tub, stroking your hair.

You cleared your throat to try and rejuvenate your weak voice. "That was amazing."

"I couldn't agree more,” he said, kissing your forehead. “Are you ok?"

You nodded and hummed a response, leaning into his touch on your jaw.

"Never thought I'd get so hot and bothered at the sight of you covered in blood," you said with a giggle.

"Well, we already knew you were a bit twisted, what with you wanting to be ruined by Ghostface," he joked, a grin spreading over his lips.

"And ruined, I was."

Jake held out his hand to help you step out of the bathtub, handing you a fluffy white towel. Once you were dry, he tied his soft robe around you, taking a moment to worship the sight of your body.

You turned to head towards the linen closet to grab a fresh set of sheets, thinking about the crime scene that was yours and Jake's bed.

Jake grabbed you by your waist and turned you around to face him. "Mm-mm. Already done, pretty girl. You have nothing to worry about." He placed a sweet kiss on the tip of your nose.

"You already changed the--?"

"Yep. All clean."

You hadn't any idea where he had found the time to do that, but you almost moaned at the idea of sinking deep into the fresh sheets next to Jake.

Once more, you found yourself with your legs wrapped around Jake's waist as he carried you back to the bedroom, your chin propped on his shoulder.

He set you down on your back on the mattress, leaning over your body to kiss you deeply. It was passionate, yet spilling over with tenderness. In that moment, all you knew was Jake's solid body and his soft lips.

You gasped and chuckled at the feeling of Jake already hard again between your legs.

He looked down at the bulge in his pants. "'God, you see what you do to me?'" he quoted Billy Loomis with a smile, talking against your lips.

"No, I don't," you said coyly, returning his smile and wrapping your arms around his back, pulling him flush to you. "Why don't you show me?"

*

PART TWO!!

taglist post!

[f0rlorn]

i’m not a violent dog → coral

coral!tbosas x reader

notes → in which you get to understand coral a little better. feminine intended reader.

warnings → descriptions of brandy’s dead body, other typical thg warnings. also me giving characters angst alert!!! not edited & uploaded via iphone (i didn’t know how to end this lol) AND ME NOT REMEMBERING HOW THE BOOK WENT LMAO

     you barely managed to choke back a scream as brandy’s body dangled in front of you. heavensbee hall went silent, as the crane hauling her limp form, which was ridden with gunshots, paraded through the street. below brandy, the tributes could be vaguely made out, chained up. you couldn’t help but scan over them quickly, trying desperately to account for coral. spotting her, you sighed, though not of relief. perhaps it was shame that this is what your home had come to, exploiting the youth of it’s country. maybe it was even sympathy for coral, but seeing her in the state she was in brought anything but relief. coral was slouched over, making herself as small as possible, a stark contrast to the brave face she had put on at the zoo, when you had first met her. swallowing the vomit that threatened to rise, you decided to give her a visit later that night.

     when the time came, you vowed to immediately make your way to the zoo, declaring that determining her safety was more important at the moment. and as soon as class ended, you were off. peacekeepers formed a wall in front of the entrance, forcing you to buy your way in. after arguing with the peacekeeper, who finally gave in when you had offered him payment, you were allowed visitation, but only under supervision and for a limited amount of time. you tried to be polite with the gruff older man, making small talk with him as he guided you to the monkey cage, but once you saw coral you were out of his sight.

     “coral!” you cried. once she had noticed you she made her way to the front of the enclosure rather slowly. they still had the tributes chained up. “please tell me you’re not hurt.”

     “not. but i can’t take much more of this.” she admitted. her gaze was fixed to the floor, and the refusal to look you in the eyes broke your heart.

     “i.. i know. i’m trying my best to help but dr. gaul won’t give me the time of day.” you explained, eying her with worry. “i can’t believe they’ve chained you up like this, it’s inhumane.” while that was true, compared to the rest of the list of things the capitol was enforcing, this hardly scratched the surface.

     “i wish they’d just kill me already.” coral muttered, voice gravelly.

     “please, coral, don’t say that. you can win, i know you can.” you pleaded. her eyes bore resentment at your words.

     “why do you believe that, huh?” she gripped the bars that separated the two of you forcefully, “because i’m big and scary? do i intimidate you?” her voice rose and her tone grew angry. the chains holding her hands together rattled as she moved. seeing as you almost flinched, she scoffed, slouching once more. “i don’t want to be the way i am, y’know,” coral mumbled, her lip quivering. “i’m.. i’m not violent. i don’t know why i fight. we’re all animals to them, that’s all we’ll ever be.” her words brought tears to your eyes. 

     the dehumanizing of the districts had gone on for far too long. there had been countless encounters with your classmates where the district people were referred to as “animals,” and the thought truly disgusted you. but up until this point you had merely been a pawn. despite the countless opportunities you were given to speak up to your classmates, you remained silent. even worse, you had ignorantly laughed along with them in the past. but what better way to wash away your guilt than play the savior in someone else’s story? even if the ulterior motive went unbeknownst to you, the privilege you had couldn’t be ignored by yourself. you could make a difference if you tried, if only you knew how. the best you could do for now was try to get your tribute out of the games alive.

     “you’re not an animal, coral. you’re a girl. a strong one, and a really, really brave one. coral, please.” you begged her, you didn’t quite know what for, though. “the fight you have in you is nothing to be ashamed of, it’s how you survived. i’m sorry, coral. i’m so so sorry.” you broke down, allowing the tears to spill from your eyes. “i wish i could do more to help you. this is so… messed up,” you sobbed.

     “back home, they tell us not to cry. there’s too much work to be done for tears. me and my siblings start work before dawn, and we work till night. if only they could see me now,” she laughed humorously. “and the things they’d say about you, gosh… you wouldn’t last a day there, princess. i can’t imagine you being able to haul crates of fish. let alone be able to catch one.” you pressed your forehead against the bars and let her words hang in the air. after a minute or so, her head rest against the bars as well, nearly touching yours. silence rang in the air as the two of you sat, contently.

     “alright, girly, time’s up. you’re way too close anyway.” the peacekeeper approached you after a while, grabbing your arm and sweeping you away before you could object.

     “coral!” she glanced up at you. “i’ll see you tomorrow.” coral took that as reason to get ahold of herself, suppress her vulnerability and impress the cameras tomorrow. besides, the cameras weren’t the only thing she wanted to impress. maybe, just maybe, if coral won the games she could have you too.

[em1e]

hunted | 1 k

╰ everything's going wrong it seems. ⚠︎ threats, i am a kisaki hater through and through, the girls are FIGHINTG, short part my b ♡ series m.list

“don’t look so disappointed at it bein’ me.” another giggle passes hanma’s lips, reaching out for you before you can step away. 

he pulls you towards him with the grip on your wrist, twisting you around until your back is pressed to his chest with his hand readjusting to your waist to keep you in place, his other hand coming to your mouth to prevent any sounds from escaping. 

“s’a shame,” he comments, “i wanted to be the one to kill that bastard. seems my king may have the honor of doing it on his own.” 

he leans down despite your struggling against him, breath fanning against your ear, “or perhaps he will be at your king's mercy.” 

your screams don’t make it past the flesh of his hand, and your flailing does little to stop him from lifting you from the ground, walking with you until the treelines thin and you can see a clearing from the trails. you can make out a chariot just at the edge of where the trees break and a guard nods at hanma as he pulls open the door, allowing your captor to easily push you inside and slam it shut while you recover from being tossed in. 

you scramble against the floor, beating on the door, “hanma, let me out now.” you demand, rattling against it like a caged animal. 

“it’d be wise to keep your whining to a minimum.” he tuts, eyeing you through the small barred window of the door, “i’m afraid my king doesn’t fare well with defiance.” 

his eyes flit behind you, and you have enough sense to follow his gaze. 

“did you miss me, princess?” kisaki smirks. you think hanma giggles from outside, “here’s how this is going to work-”

you feel incredibly vulnerable from your spot on the carriage’s floor, back pressing into the door to keep as much distance between the two of you as possible. still, he leans down, letting his face hover only inches from your own as he pushes his glasses back up the bridge of his nose, “and you can either be a good queen for me, or i will have your brother and knight murdered and you will be left with no one.” 

༝

baji could’ve expected many things, coming out from the woods with an armful of sticks and branches. 

he could picture you, laying on the ground with one of the few blankets they have under you, fast asleep with his coat he’d offered many nights before draped over your shoulders. he could picture chifuyu tending the fire, snacking on some of the provisions he’d snuck from your pack after you’d passed out, sending baji a look of challenge as if he’d dare to wake you to snitch, or even offer the bit of jerky left to the knight as a sign of peace. 

baji doesn’t, however, expect to see the small camp they’d made void of you. 

chifuyu is, as he expected, rummaging through one of your many packs, trying to find what one has the food, and he quickly tosses it aside with his hands behind his back when he realizes he isn't alone. 

“where’s (y/n)?” baji asks at the same time chifuyu asks, “where’s the princess?”

both men stare at each other for all of ten seconds, expressions mirrored in their own confusion, before chifuyu’s drops and he darts in the direction you’d left in. 

baji’s hesitation only lasts a second before he’s dropping the wood and following after the mercenary, steps coming to a halt as chifuyu freezes at the edge of the woods. 

“the hell is going on?” baji clenches his teeth, shoving at chifuyu’s shoulder. 

chifuyu offers no answer, his own jaw clamped shut as he wordlessly nods to a carriage that slowly departs along the trail. if he squints, baji can make out the embroidered print of the valhalla kingdom on the flag of the carriage. 

“where’s (y/n)?” baji asks again, fists balled. his nails bite into the skin of his palm when chifuyu doesn’t reply, until he’s grabbing the mercenary by the front of his tunic and pulling him towards him, “where the fuck are they?” he repeats.

it only takes chifuyu a second to pry baji’s fingers from his shirt, pushing him back by the shoulder while glowering, “i think you know as well as i do where they are.” 

then he turns on his heel and heads back towards their camp, baji hot on his tail, “we have to go after them. if we don’t, they’ll be forced to wed kisaki and-” 

chifuyu’s stride is unbroken as he interrupts baji, “i was hired to ensure they arrive safely, and since it seems that has been compromised, i am to return to my kingdom for further instruction.” 

“and what of the princess?,” baji probes, “they would still be at the camp, had you been doing what you were paid for-” 

chifuyu stops at that, quick to turn on his heel with a glare, “they left in search of you. had you not ignored them for the past day’s travels, perhaps they’d be in your arms now.” 

baji’s mouth opens to argue, brows furrowed and words sharp on his tongue, only to be interrupted by a slow clap coming from the woods to his right. 

“impressive, really, to see the two of you fall apart at the seams.” hanma giggles, hands clasping together when their full attention is on him, “and for someone who wasn’t either of yours to begin with; it’s almost sweet.” 

both men take defensive poses, eyes narrowing, “it must hurt knowing you’ve failed. ‘m sure of it.” hanma continues, circling around them like a predator scoping out its prey. 

“where have you taken them?” baji demands. hanma clicks his tongue, head tilting. 

“i’d worry about my own skin at the moment - surely the two of you are smart enough to not pick a fight barehanded?” he wonders aloud, hands gesturing out to his sides. as if on queue, four more guards flank either side of him; two holding the reins of their horses while the remaining two hold their bags and materials. 

the pair share a look. hanma lets out another giggle, chin tilting down, “i’d come quietly, if you want to make things easier for your dear princess.”

[brandwhorestarscream]

For your TFA OP is Megatron's child, what does he do when he realizes? Does he tell anyone, does he deny it? Does he go and hide from the world for a while? Or does he pretend not to see the resemblance and start "tracing" what happened to "the sparkling" (it'll give him more time)? Or is it more like he does several of these?

He's in a state of shock at first. He doesn't believe it, this can't be true! He- His first memories are of waking up with his batchmates when he was first brought online as a protoform, this is impossible! He was constructed cold, just as everyone was, he- he isn't... he's not a...

But the evidence is right there in front of him. He quietly shuts off the datapad and deletes his trail of research. This can't be happening! He leaves early that day, hurrying home to his apartment and locking the doors + windows. His servos are shaking and by the time he realizes it, he barely has time to plop down into a chair before a full blown wave of panic crashes over his body. His vents spin out of control as he struggles to cool his rapidly heating frame, optics taken over by tinnitus as he curls into himself.

He was so little when they took him, sparklinghood amnesia took care of most of the pesky memories, and he had a memory blocker installed. But now that he knows, the old software does little good, and there's already cracks starting to leak through the blockade. It's like a dam has suddenly broken in his mind and he's assaulted by an ocean of memories.

Suddenly 🥺 he remembers the warmth of his carrier's love. Remembers a huge, gentle hand on his face, a voice speaking in a language that's now extinct on modern day Cybertron, calling him a name that's achingly familiar. He remembers being held close and warm to a giant spark, pulsing so intensely he could feel it thrumming through his whole body, washing him with waves of endless love and affection. He remembers... strange people, suddenly storming into the mineshaft where his mother worked. He remembers stun batons and electric prods and screaming, so much screaming. Remembers seeing blood spill as his mother tore someone's helm clean off their body, roaring at them to get their hands off his sparkling. He remembers being grabbed and thrown into a cage of some sort, a turbohound kennel for transport, crying and holding the bars, rattling them with his tiny chubby hands and braying hysterically for his mother. He remembers seeing his carrier fall, stunned unconscious, and being hauled away despite his pleas.

He remembers all of this while his body is in the clutches of an intense panic attack, the memories overwhelming and threatening to consume him. He lays there in the dark of his apartment, all lights off and curled up in the corner as if he could hide from the war going on inside his helm, crying brokenly into his arms. His spark aches in his chassis, throbbing as it expands and contracts in a desperate bid for another. How long has it been? When did that happen? When did they take him? Why did they take him? If he's not cold constructed why did they pretend he was, why put him in boot camp and make him an autobot prime? Questions swirl around his mind faster than even Blurr could speak, and he's honestly not surprised when he suddenly crashes

Optimus wakes up on the floor of his apartment hours later, in the dead of night, when everything is still and silent and so, so dark. Sitting there staring at the ceiling, he can feel panic already gnawing on him again, but he stubbornly tries to push it away. He needs to figure out what to do.

[karniss-bg3]

Hearts of Glass

A/N: This is a commission for @valdieball for his character Keladin paired with Kar'niss. This will be multi-chaptered.

Characters: Original Drow Male (Keladin) x Kar'niss

Word Count: 3,273

Location: Moonrise Towers

Fandoms: Baldur's Gate 3, Dungeons and Dragons

Content Warnings: Arachnophobia, story contains driders and fantasy elements.

Summary: Awoken in the middle of the night by a terrible nightmare, Keladin finds himself in desperate need to be soothed. The drow opts to take his lyre and climb to the top of Moonrise towers in search for a private spot to play. He wouldn't be left alone for long, soon confronted by the towers guardian; the drider, Kar'niss.

[AO3 Mirror]

***

“Run!”

The cry rattled in Keladin’s skull, pulsing within his eardrums. He recognized the voice that belted the command; a soft, feminine tone that he’d nearly forgotten after all this time. His vision was consumed by darkness unending, surrounded on all sides by walls of pitch black, leaving him blind to his environs. He tried to follow the order given yet he found his legs declined to obey, locking the drow in place by way of self inflicted paralysis.

“Keladin, hurry!”

The voice echoed throughout his prison bouncing off of unseen walls. He felt as if he may suffocate under the pressure to flee but why did his body refuse to retreat? Keladin opened his mouth to speak yet nary a sound left him. To will even the faintest sound felt as if it took a monumental amount of energy to conjure. His heart drummed behind his rib cage, a deafening sound that increased his anxiety. He wanted to call out to her and to prevent what he already knew would come.

“Oh Gods...Keladin! Keep running, get out, they’re going to—“

Her words were cut off by a horrid scream. It surged with such force that the darkened room in which he stood shattered like glass. Chunks fell away from the walls, ceiling and floor like pieces of obsidian. This sent the drow into a straight free fall, tumbling endlessly into the darkness below.

“Vaelic!”

Keladin sat up like a shot in his bed. His two-toned eyes were wide and his body was slick with sweat. Vaelic’s name still burned on his lips while he sucked in frantic pulls of air. He lifted one of his hands only to notice a tremble on his fingers. He clamped his palm to his face then ran those darkened fingers through his pale, shoulder length hair. It was rare for him to dream during his trance state and even rarer for the past to haunt him like this. He was certain those days were long behind him especially now that the Absolute had taken him under their wing. What good did his prior life in the Underdark do for him now? One thing he knew for sure, he needed air and a way to calm his nerves. His hands were anything but steady yet that didn’t stop the drow from collecting the lyre propped up at the side of his bed. In times of need he knew the instrument was one thing he could always count on and he needed that comfort now more than ever.

The hour was late and thus he sought a secluded spot in which to play. Keladin knew better than to leave the grounds of Moonrise towers. The shadow curse was in full swing and even the melodic strumming of his lyre wouldn’t be enough to keep the beasts at bay. There was one spot he knew he could go but it wasn’t entirely unoccupied. Moonrise had a single drider occupant under its roof and to many he was unstable and frightening. Keladin was off-put by Lolth’s “abomination” when he first arrived. Driders were little more than reminders of Her cruelty as well as the failure of those drow who didn’t perform in an optimal way. Keladin often wondered if that would’ve been his fate had he not escaped the Underdark. The very thought made him shiver but he refused to let the idea linger. Instead he threw on a cloth shirt and began to make his way up the long, winding staircase which led to the top of a tower.

***

Perched atop the tallest stone battlement, a single drider stood alone. His long locks of white hair hung heavy on either side of his scarred face. Weighed down by dirt and grime the once illustrious strands had lost much of their bounce and brilliance. The drider, known as Kar’niss, seemed to be lost in thought. His clawed hands clasped a wooden shaft attached to a lantern whose radiant light fought back against the ever looming shadows.

“Yes, Majesty...we hear you,” Kar’niss mumbled. “To be close to you, it is all we’ve ever dreamed. We will shepherd your faithful, we will remain loyal, it is us who serves you without question.”

It appeared that the drider was talking to himself, or to one of the many voices occupying his fractured mind. None could ever tell and most didn’t care enough to discover the truth of the matter. Each word was accompanied by a growling thrill that vibrated in the depths of his chest, a constant reminder that he was forever changed. While he spent much of his time alone in this very spot to be close to his “Queen” he never considered himself unattended. He had his Majesty, what more could he possibly need?

Kar’niss’ train of thought was broken when his ears caught the creaking sound of the tower door swinging open. This was enough to cease communication with the Absolute and prompt him to swivel around in search of the culprit. Eight thin, pointed legs afforded him swift movement, able to turn on a coin with little trouble. Kar’niss caught sight of Keladin as he stepped out into the open. All seven eyes followed the drow with caution. He was aware that Keladin was a True Soul and perhaps that is what earned him respite from Kar’niss’ nagging.

The night air hung heavy, stagnant and still. Despite this Keladin wouldn’t be deterred. He had grown accustomed to the gloomy atmosphere that permeated throughout the landscape. The drow took a seat on top of one of the many crates scattered over the area with his instrument clutched close to his person. He inhaled a deep lungful of air and put his full concentration into playing. His nimble fingers plucked at each individual string with accuracy and care as if pulling the music from the core of his soul. The more he played the more he felt the pull of the melody start to take over. Keladin began to sway gently in time with the rhythm while keeping his eyes closed. Visions danced within his mind, aiding in pushing away the dark thoughts once housed there. Steadily, the anxiety would melt away, allowing his muscles to relax and keep his focus clear.

Kar’niss, close to the source as he was, turned his head to look in the direction of the musician. His pointed ears honed in on the tune and he found himself mesmerized by it. Not many in the tower played music and the few who did weren’t up to the drider’s lofty standards. This new arrival piqued his interest in a way few ever did and now he wanted to know more. As Keladin continued to strum in perfect harmony he’d find he was unaware of the stealthy approach coming his way. A skilled creature of ambush and surprise, the drider had little trouble inching his way closer to the drow, his long legs making nary a sound. Both clawed hands clasped the shaft of his moon lantern keeping it close to his chest while reddish-orange pearls locked onto the back of Keladin’s head. Kar’niss stopped when he was a few feet away from his quarry, close enough to listen but not close enough to be within striking distance. To say he had trust issues was an understatement.

Keladin may not have noticed the initial approach but he soon became privy to the many eyes on him yet this didn’t impede his strumming in the slightest. While he preferred to play alone there weren’t many places here where privacy was afforded and this wasn’t the first time he had to perform for an audience. While his initial instinct was to hold distrust for the drider, considering his history, he knew that no other in their ranks worshiped and adored the Absolute more than Kar’niss. Somehow, this was a comfort to him, to think he’d have an ally of equal measure in devout loyalty. Or at least he hoped Kar’niss would be his ally, only time would tell.

The tune wafted across the battlement and the bard lost himself to the engaging refrain. Kar’niss’ pedipalps twitched against his torso, reacting to the chorus as if they wished to dance but the drider refused to allow them the pleasure. Instead he leaned in just a little further, closing that distance between them inch by inch. His breath hitched in his throat as if he was prepared to say something but his internal doubts put a stop to that. Gradually the song began to die down, the movement of Keladin’s fingers easing up to pluck the final few notes, ending the beautiful ballad. For a moment complete silence was restored to the tower, only broken by the drow himself.

“Was it to your liking?” Keladin asked, his eyes still closed. The tone of his voice was calm and even lacking any sort of aggression toward the drider.

Kar’niss jerked his head back once addressed. He took a few cautious steps away from Keladin and his muscles tensed beneath the hardened chitin that covered his arms and torso.

“It was...better...than the silence that came before it,” Kar’niss said.

The drow shifted on the crate while a smirk crept across his lips. “I suppose that is as high a compliment as I could ask for.”

The drider’s legs shuffled nervously beneath him. “The hour is late. Why is the True Soul here?” Kar’niss asked.

His brows knit and he side eyed the drider. “Please, call me Keladin...if you don’t mind.” He feathered his fingertips over the strings on the lyre. “The title of True Soul doesn’t suit me.” He inhaled a faint breath before he turned to better face Kar’niss. “I couldn’t sleep so I decided to play for a little while. If I am disturbing you I can move elsewhere.”

Kar’niss tipped his chin up by a hair then shook his head. “We will not command your departure. The lyre makes better company than nattering goblins.”

Keladin chuckled and plucked a single string on the instrument. “True.” He paused while his two-toned eyes lifted to get a better look at him. This wasn’t their first encounter but it was the first while they were off duty, so to speak. “You’re Kar’niss, right?”

The question made Kar’niss blink with some confusion while his hands squeezed the wooden staff tighter. “That is our name, yes. We aren’t addressed as such often.”

“Mm, I’ve heard a few of the colorful nicknames some have chosen for you. I don’t understand the reason. We’re all here to serve the Absolute and do Her will. There is no sense in squabbling with one another if we are to fulfill our purpose,” Keladin said.

Kar’niss sucked in a sharp breath and took several quick steps toward Keladin. “Yes! We are Her Majesty’s faithful, Her guardians! She bestowed us with this gift.” Kar’niss held out the moon lantern, it’s glow strong enough to push back the perpetual darkness. It did well to illuminate his monstrous features including the many blackened ovals peppered over his forehead; Keladin’s face reflected on their glossy surface. “She entrusted it to us.” Kar’niss’ tone dripped with pride.

He smiled as he viewed the intricate lantern with some interest. Its brilliance shone over the navy hue of Keladin’s skin tone, accentuating the waxy material of his prosthetic blue eye on the right side of his face. The more he studied Kar’niss the more his body language told him what he wished to know. He could already discern that he wasn’t like the other driders back home. He held a higher level of intelligence but more importantly he had something other driders lacked—self preservation.

“It’s a beautiful lantern worthy of its guardian...,” he trailed off a moment to think, “Is this spot where you live? I don’t see you much inside the building.”

Kar’niss shrugged. “We go where our Queen tells us to go. We stay up here to be closer to Majesty, to better hear Her voice. We live no where and every where and we are happy for it.”

“I see,” Keladin said. “Then you and I are of the same mind. I only wish to serve. The Absolute is the first place I’ve found where men are treated equal to women. I couldn’t find salvation with the spider queen, I couldn’t find salvation with Eilistraee, but here…,” he trailed off and turned his sights over the stone wall, peering out into the distance as far as the shadows would allow, “...I am worthy.”

This statement struck Kar’niss in a way he hadn’t anticipated. Not only did these words come from a drow, but it was rare that any here shared the same level of passion for the Absolute as himself. For a moment he found himself speechless as he stared at Keladin, observing him with quiet contemplation and intrigue. His legs clicked against the stone floor while he ushered himself closer to the bard, keen to get a better look at him. Kar’niss lowered himself without warning and invaded Keladin’s space, their gazes meeting now that he was at eye level to the drow. Naturally, Keladin was startled by the sudden intrusion and leaned back out of instinct.

An intense moment was shared between them as the two stared at one another. Keladin hadn’t been this close to a drider before least of all under friendly circumstances. Horrifying as some of his features may have been, there was a part of the bard that found portions of Kar’niss to be fascinating; even if the circumstances of his transformation were no doubt tragic.

“Did—Did I say something wrong?” Keladin asked, his tone hushed.

Kar’niss pressed his lips into a thin line and lowered the lantern to grant them a reprieve from its blinding luminescence. “No.” He leaned back and chose not to elaborate on the sudden shift. “If True Soul—Keladin wishes to play here you may do so. Our Queen will be pleased to know you honor Her with your gifts.”

The drow tipped his head to the side and shifted the position of the lyre in his lap. Kar’niss was aggressive toward most others in the tower, keeping his distance and snarling at any who got in his way. So for him to willingly invite Keladin into a place he considered sacred was indeed an honor and a privilege.

“I will take that offer to heart. Thank you, Kar’niss,” Keladin said.

The drider nodded and turned his head to look away from him as if a sudden surge of shyness had overcome him. It was clear that he wasn’t the most adept at social situations. When Kar’niss turned away Keladin noticed something had become tangled in Kar’niss’ hair.

“Ah, hold still a moment. You have something stuck in your hair,” Keladin said as he slid off of the crate and stood upright, placing the lyre aside.

“What?” Kar’niss reached up and touched over his locks carefully. “I do not feel it.”

“Lower your body and I can get it out, won’t take a moment.”

Kar’niss seemed hesitant, skeptical even. Drow were known to slit the throat of driders for fun, their hatred of his kind strong and everlasting. But since they had bonded over their mutual love and respect for the Absolute it did earn the bard a speck of trust; at least enough to make Kar’niss comply. The drider took a few steps closer to Keladin while pedipalps wiggled beneath his belly button, then lowered himself into the range of the drow’s reach. Keladin used his skilled fingers to gently tug at the strands and dislodge the unknown object within. It took some finesse on his part as he didn’t want to damage the drider’s hair or cause him discomfort which could disrupt their budding road to friendship. Kar’niss hissed through his teeth with minor discomfort as he wasn’t accustomed to having anyone this close.

Soon Keladin pulled the foreign mass from his wavy locks and examined it. It turned out to be a few dead leaves likely blown in on the intermittent winds. While he’d finished the task he didn’t alert the drider immediately. Rather he took the time to study Kar’niss’ features up close while he could, admiring his strong features and pale complexion. His fingertips reached out to caress the hardened chitin following his jawline. It had a rough, uneven texture and yet it was somehow pleasant to the touch. Kar’niss didn’t seem to feel the touches or if he did he wasn’t interested in commenting on the matter. Keladin started to grow concerned as he felt the growing urge to explore further. Curiosity killed cats but it could strike down a drow just as easily.

“Did you get it?” Kar’niss asked.

The broken silence made the bard jolt and he jerked his hand back with some mild embarrassment to follow. “A-Ah yes. It was just a few rogue leaves.” He held up the evidence for Kar’niss to see.

“Hmph,” Kar’niss snorted. He used his gnarled digits to scoop up the leaves from Keladin’s palm. He curled his fingers and crushed them to dust then shook out his hand, letting the remaining particles catch the breeze. “A waste of time, but we thank you all the same.”

“Of course.”

Keladin felt a little awkward for letting himself get carried away. His purpose was to serve the Absolute and he couldn’t allow himself to get distracted by feelings. The past taught him one valuable lesson; feelings were a good way to get you killed.

“Mm, I should return to my quarters. It would do well to get what rest I can before the morning roll call.” Keladin picked up his lyre and smiled up at the drider. “I’m glad you enjoyed the music. Perhaps...I can play for you again soon,” he paused, “for the Absolute, I mean.”

Kar’niss rolled his shoulders as he lifted the lantern, a metallic squeaking audible as it swayed side to side. “Very well. Do as you will, Keladin. We will be here, bathing in Her Majesty’s light.”

“For the Absolute,” Keladin saluted and turned to head back to the tower door.

“For the Absolute,” Kar’niss repeated as he watched the bard leave.

It was a strange encounter, at least as far as the drider was concerned. He returned to his perch at the edge of the tower, overlooking the area as a faithful guardian should. Without warning he felt a peculiar tingling sensation crawling over his jawline precisely where Keladin had touched. Kar’niss reached up and ran his claw tips over the area, perplexed by the sensation. It was warm, it was inviting, but he couldn’t understand its origin. He craned his head to look up, the faintest glow of the moon barely breaking through the shadows suffocating the sky.

“You sent him to me, Majesty?” Kar’niss whispered. “Thank you, my Queen. We will treasure your second gift to us. We are worthy, he is worthy.”

Kar’niss stayed perched in place and resumed muttering to himself but this time with a bit more purpose in his speech. Keladin returned to his quarters and flopped into bed, staring up at the ceiling while his forearm rested across his hairline. He didn’t know how to feel about the exchange between himself and Kar’niss but he knew he couldn’t stop thinking about him. A second performance would need to be sooner rather than later if he ever hoped to sate his curiosity about this eccentric drider.

After everything he’d endured, after all he’d seen, he deserved a little something for himself.

He’d earned that much.

[genavere]

Fairy Tail - RE:Script

Episode One: Hargeon

Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Chapter 6

“Stupid…stupid!” Lucy berated in hard sobs. Chains above her rattled and clanked. Cradled against her chest, the hand she managed to free. The skin around the broken bone already had darkened, a mixture of red and blue from the damage and the bruising. The torn skin from being cut into by the manacle bled freely over her already soaked top.

Even as the air grew warmer, every nerve and muscle in her body screamed and shook from the pain. It hurt…by the grace of the Celestial King, did it hurt! Even the sight of the thumb—out of place, joint limp against the middle of her hand—sent a fresh wave of tremors through her.

And as the tremors hit, so did the pain. It shot from her hand to every nerve of her arm. Muscles spasmed and sent another wave of pain. A vicious cycle that she could not contain. Breathing became a chore with each gasp and sob of agony.

Tears blurred her vision. A headache assaulted her senses, each heartbeat in her chest urging another blinding stab of misery. None of it kept the reality of her situation from overwhelming her. A harsh truth she could see no escape from.

Even if she managed to get her other hand out—dislocating or breaking her thumb as she had on her left one—then that still left the cage. It had been opened by magic on the bracers the crew wore. Unlike keys, bracers would be impossible to steal without being caught. Attempting to do so would leave her enduring another beating.

Each breath she took warned that another beating would lead to injuries she could not afford to have. Running would be near impossible if the opportunity arrived, and it would leave her weakened beyond the ability to fight back. Salamander would be able to do whatever he wanted to her, and that was without the threat of what he would do to her keys.

A different form of fear crept up like the bile at the back of her throat. Clenching her right hand, she remembered the stories that those she worked with through the years had told her. Injuries to their bodies happened more often than not, and the aches their bones felt when the weather changed had made her heart ache for them. Broken bones never healed properly, and the pain would remain with her for the rest of her life.

Could she risk damaging her dominate hand without a clear way to escape? The one that held her keys as she summoned her friends, the whip she used to fight beside them, the sword and bow she used to have before needing to sell them for a bit of jewel. The hand she used to write her stories.

Would her thumb heal correctly and only minimum pain ghost her for the rest of her life? If it did not heal right, it could be too painful to do anything.

Her lip trembled. Everything that she had done to escape—to stay hidden and just be her own person—had it all truly been for nothing? While she had learned much since running away, and the only course of action she could act on was to remain free as long as possible, there were so many more adventures that she had wanted to experience. Things she had never tried.

“If you ever find yourself stuck,” her mother’s voice echoed in her mind, “remember these fairy tales. They will be your salvation, my little star.”

“They won’t,” she sobbed, gripping the chain in her right hand and letting her body sag. “They were nothing but stories!”

Soft words spoken under starlight and the glow of a fire; every night had been spent cuddled into her mother’s chest as the words of stories danced around them. Daring sword fights, brave adventurers, loyal friends, and creatures long forgotten by normal folk. A book would be chosen and they would read it together, but every so often, her mother would slip out a particular book and lift a finger to her lips.

“Shh,” a smile would grace her lips, “this book is our secret.”

Between those pages, a different sort of tales filled the night. In hushed whispered when her father was off on trips, tales of past wars, dragons who sought the end of humanity and those who stood with them, and people selected by the very gods of their religions fought against others. Even the stars above helped, granting celestial keys to the world and connect the two realms.

“Remember, my star,” her mama’s voice trembled those nights. Very tight and cautious. “Your father would not take too well to know of these stories. That is why we keep them from him.”

“But Mama,” she cuddled against her mother’s chest, feeling the bone-thing body press against her cheek as they huddled under blankets on the couch. “I miss papa.”

“I know, my dearest.” A kiss to her head signaled the start of the next story.

The stories allowed beyond the hush of nightfall were the simple fairy tales that had been a nightly ritual for them. In the beginning, all three of them would cuddle under woolen forts with pillows and chairs that helped keep the structure up. Her parents would laugh as she acted out scenes from the stories.

Some of the stories were of dragons befriending heroes, who later would turn on the poor beast. Others of mice helping women fulfill impossible tasks. Her personal favorites usually had princesses, and when they befriended the dragons who hid in the mountains all alone, her tiny body would jump and cheer.

“Everyone needs a friend, mama!” she’d cry, relieved when the story ended with friendship.

“Yes, my dearest, everyone needs a friend.”

It had taken running away from the only place she had known to realize why her mama had looked so sad when she said those words. The pull of her lips in a smile that cried without the use of tears. A look given to a child who unknowingly had no friends besides a doll named Gonzales with a lovely nickname of Michelle.

Child-like innocence had hidden much of what life had tried to pin her with.

Metal of the ship groaned. Vibrations rippled through the chains down her arm. The air around her paused, and she felt her breath catch at the pressure.

Heat erupted through the darkness and lit it up in an explosion of oranges, reds, and yellows. Pain pierced her eyes at the change of lighting. Clenching them, she pressed her face into her chilled arm and tried to listen beyond the ringing.

Voices loud enough to sound their distress caught her attention, then shouting from people she could only guess were the crew. Had the military become suspicious? When had they entered the hull of the ship? Maybe she had fallen unconscious from her beating or breaking her hand. Whoever had attacked were not pulling their punches, that she knew as another rumble went through the ship and her cage.

Voices crying out and screaming filled the silence the ringing had provided. Some were the frightened calls for help from women. Others full of pain that continued for several minutes or abruptly ended.

Like the winds of a desert, heat pulsed through the bars and swirled through the darkness. It from a relief from the chill of the air that she desperately wished to cling to. If the military were attacking, then they would be providing help to those like her. The moment she could get free and get back to land, she would find a way to slip away.

But her keys, and her bag…her heart clenched at the thought of being completely alone without her spirits. How would she be able to find them?

Something flickered in the space of the cages. A bit of white flashed through again, and her eyes widened. “Happy?” The word caught in her throat, and came out rasped. With nothing to wet her lips, she pressed herself forward, the word less than a wisp of air. “Happy!”

Frantic that the cat would not hear her, she pushed through the pain and numbness that had set into her limbs, and started to clang the chain again the bars above. A loud reverberation traveled down her arm and rang in her ears, but it did exactly what she needed.

“Lu-shee?” Happy halted midair at the new sound. Looking around, he noted that most of the cages in this area were empty compared to the other side, but there had to be someone here. Deciding to investigate the noise instead of wandering mindlessly for a clue where Lucy could be, a large smile lit up his face when he finally saw a cage with someone in it.

“Lucy!” He got right up to the bars and pressed his face in to look through them at her. “Where are your clothes? It’s chilly down where without Natsu!”

She choked back a sob that escaped with her relieved laughter and heaved a sigh of relief. Heat built up behind her eyes and his concerned blue face blurred. “You have…n-no idea how happy I am to see you, Happy!” A well of happiness flooded through her and she wanted to reach out and hug the cat to her.

“We came looking for you when Natsu found your hat!” Placing her pack on the ground, he looked at the lock on the door and tried shaking it open. Nothing rattled or shook. It felt like the door was fused with the rest of the bars and left no clear way to get out. A twinge of fear crept up her spine at the thought of what would have happened if the ship sunk.

Pushing the thought and fear down, she focused on the here and now. That meant getting out of the chains and cage. If Happy could find Salamander and somehow get his bracer from him…a frown pulled at her lips.

No, that would be too tricky and dangerous for him. There were too many variables that could put him at risk. What if Salamander used his charm magic? Could that affect a creature like Happy? She could not be certain, and sometimes even knowing the usage, those rings could pose a serious threat.  

Glancing down at the bag below Happy, a striking familiarity caught her by surprise. Each rip, patch, and stitch down to the mismatched buttons stood out to her. Even the thick leather she had managed to barter for after the bottom of the bag fell out on her. “You found my bag?”

“Of course, we did!” he said with a hiccup of a laugh.

Something glinted on the far edge of the bag and drew her attention away from what he was saying. Scents and Salamander, or something along those lines. Tilting her head for a better look at the items, a hoarse cry fell from her lips. “My keys! Happy, you found my keys!”

Happiness flowed through her like the heat of the sun. The keys her mother had cherished, the only thing she had left besides a journal and her looks, the friends who had stood by her in her need to escape.

Warmth spilled over onto her cheeks and she reached her broken hand out for them. “Please, can you hand me the golden one that looks like an axe?” The urge to request all of them filled her mouth and nearly spilled out. What use would it be to attempt to hold all of them in her broken hand? Enough pain from the beating earlier kept her from reaching out further—a twinge ran down her back from bruises.

Her mind rushed, figuring out what she would need to do to summon her spirit. If she did it in the cage, both of them might be stuck, or her spirit might accidentally hurt her. The spirit with the golden axe happened to be on the larger side.

But—she realized that while the front of the cage happened to be further away from her, that meant the back was closer. Pulling her arm back, another sting of pain shot down her side and into the top part of her thigh, she thrusted her arm out of the bars and held her hand open. “Put it in my hand, and I can get us help!”

There were no objections or words to question her on what she planned, Happy just gathered the keyring in his hand and sorted through silvers and golds until he found one that looked like a weapon once welded by a guildmate.

A warm, familiar hum of magic pulsed up her arm and sent goosebumps over her skin the moment the celestial metal touched her skin. Tears blurred her vision at the soothing nature of each of her spirits pushed through to her. Resolve strengthened, her grip on the key tightened and every ounce of her magical energy pushed toward it.

“Taurus! I call upon thee!”

Along the docks and rows of buildings in Hargeon, crowds gathered to watch the smoking ship just further out of the bay. Concern for those of their community who had gone to party with the Salamander rose. Had something gone wrong with the ship? Would the ship be able to limp back in? Without clearance to bring their ships into bay, or even close to the ship, all the sailors beached that night discussed what they could do to help.

Discussions drifted to faint murmurings above, as a young child stared wide-eyed out the window of their apartment. His mother stood above him, worrying at her nails about her sister’s health who had gone on the party cruise. Only the commotion and the woman’s worry allowed for the young the child to be up so late. In awe, he watched the sky far above and pointed upward, “Mommy! Look at that!”

Heavenly bodies shifted and twisted around the blanket of midnight. Stars radiated and dimmed, pulling some back into the void and others forward toward the earth. Their cosmic dance captivated many onlookers until a constellation gleamed, one out of season and should not be visible for a few months.

The stars that formed above flew together, shattering and shimmering downward. Glitter reflected in the child’s eyes and they watched it seem to touch the ship so many eyes were on before everything settled to normal. A fantastical story only those who had witnessed it would believe.

Within the bowels of the ship, a gust of wind snapped Lucy’s hair around the cage that Happy clung to. A curtain of shimmers stepped forward from the air and heavy hooves sounded on the metal floor. The wind settled and from the shattered stars, strong, fur covered hands grabbed onto the bars of the cage.

Muscles bulged along his arms and chest, both covered by a harness of leather and chain, as he pulled the bars away from each other. Even the muscles in his legs, covered by tight pants that went down to just above where the haunches of his hooves began, flexed with his strength. When one area had been widened, he moved further down until enough space had been made for Lucy to get out, and him to get to her.

Pressing forward, a large, hair covered snout entered the cage and caught sight of Lucy’s form. A snort of anger pushed the large nose ring forward from his snout and his eyes narrowed. “Who do I need to gorge with my horns, Miss Lucy?”

He reached inside, large hands carefully gripping the chain of the remaining cuff and snapped the links apart. Those same furred hands kept her steady and helped her step from the cage onto the floor that bit at her feet.

She pulled in a gasp, hopping between the balls of her feet. Daggers stabbed outwardly, and harsh chills inward. Looking up at Taurus, glancing upon the rack of two large horns swept out on each side of his head—it had always amazed her how they never caught on things—she noticed his own stare over her and remembered her state of dress. Arms crossed over her chest, pushing her breasts inward and her legs clenched together.

His eyes narrowed further. “Where is the bag you carried?”

“Over there,” she pointed to the other side of the cage.

Rivets popped with a loud hiss and metal screeched right into her ear cavity. Before she could register where the noise had come from, Taurus had already torn the cage she had been in from the ground and threw it behind them with a single, uninterested toss. Thunder rattled her bones where hooves met the floor beneath until he snatched the bag—and the cat attached to it—from the floor.

Kneeling down, he picked her up and set her on his knee so her feet would no longer be on the freezing ground. Even with strength that could bend steel apart, every action he made from moving her to opening her bag were careful. An egg could have been inside the bag, and it never would have cracked due to him. He held the bag to her, revealing the clothes she had inside. “You’ll catch a cold if you don’t get something on.”

Worrying her lower lip, she managed to find a large tee-shirt and the cloth pants she wore to bed, “I can wear these.” With a bit of help to keep her feet from touching the ground, both articles of clothing were tugged into place.

Happy landed on her head, staring down into the bag, “What about shoes?”

“I only had the one pair,” she answered, twisting her feet together anxiously.

Taurus and Happy shared a look. Neither seemed keen on letting her walk on her own without some form of protection. Further injury and illness could set in with her current state, and from the blood and bruises that covered her, both understood the risks were higher.

Eyes narrowed in on the other, silently challenging the other. As the air between them grew taunt, Lucy felt the oppressive energy press downward on her. “Could we please talk this out, what ever the issue may be.” Much to her chagrin, neither uttered a word when each put a fist forward and shook them in quick session.

Both hands went flat in the air at the same time. The slowly formed their fists again and shook them in another quick session. The fists stayed, but she suddenly understood what they were doing.

They were settling a decision between boulder, parchment, shears.

Another set of fist shakes, and finally, Happy celebrated his victory with shears defeating Taurus’ parchment. She shook her head and zipped her bag closed. It seemed attracting strange people really was a talent of hers. At least Happy and Natsu seemed to be on her side.

With Happy’s help, the bag slipped over her arms and settled on her shoulders. He came around her front and mumbled something before gathering up what was left of the straps and tied them together across her chest. Little paws worked diligently to make a firm knot that he pulled on until he was satisfied.

“That will keep you from falling out of the straps while I carry you,” he answered her voiceless question and spread his wings wide. “Hold on tight!”

He grabbed the top handle of the bag and flew up easily, lifting her up from Taurus’ leg and keeping her feet from touching the ground. Able to stand again, the bull stood tall and called out his axe from the celestial realm.

“Follow me,” he said and looked at Happy. “No one will get passed my axe or touch Miss Lucy.” A heated snort pushed his nose ring forward, and the amount of muscles that bulged from his muscles made Happy float back a bit. He could not say for sure if anyone he knew had muscles upon muscles.

“Is he always so angry and large?” he asked Lucy in a muted tone.

“He is a bull,” she groaned, wrapping her arms around her sore middle where the straps dug in. “And he is very protective.”

“Then I am glad he’s on our side!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Author's Note:

This chapter has been written and gone over for awhile, I just have been struggling with anxiety regarding posting for this fandom for a bit. Not sure why, but I am working on pushing through it to make sure I keep this series up and finish the other stories I have written.

Also, I plan to get to all the reviews that I haven't replied to on AO3 since all of this has taken hold. I appreciate each and every one of you who has left comments and kudos. They make my day when I see them, and if anyone tells you that comments don't mean anything, that is a big fat lie. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.

Along with everything, as well, a deep thank you to @theguildawards discord server and everyone I have made friends with there. They are truly some of the most amazing people.

Links: AO3 (Is locked to registered AO3 users) | FF.net

Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

[apuckishwit]

The mortifying ordeal of realizing you're going to meet your crush in person

Steve doesn’t freeze.

He doesn’t.

He takes a perfectly reasonable moment to process the boys’ request and the fact that he just stands there with a stack of plates clutched in his hands hovering over a cardboard box while his brain basically does a barrel roll and starts screaming, “Meet Eddie? Meet Eddie? Meet Eddie?” is purely coincidence.

He puts the stack of plates down in the cardboard box and then very casually leans back against the kitchen counter, crossing his arms over his chest. “You guys want me to take you to Ohio this summer?” he repeats, also very casually.

“Yeah!” Dustin says, and Steve can already tell that now that the floodgates have been opened, the kid’s going to be pacing like a caged lion and vibrating like a livewire in about ten seconds. “We’ve got it all figured out. There’s a Greyhound bus that runs between Chicago and Columbus and Lucas and I have enough saved from Christmas and birthday money to pay for our tickets. Um, you’d have to buy your own but I swear we’ll pay you back.” True to Steve’s prediction, Dustin starts pacing the small length of his kitchen, his arms swinging wildly as he talks. “And then we can get convention passes and a hotel room. The actual hotel the convention is at is a little outside our price range, but Columbus has a public transport system and there’s cheaper motels not that far from the convention center, and we’d only have to stay for one night! We can get there on Friday night, stay at the hotel, go see Eddie on Saturday, and then get back on the bus and head back to Chicago!”

Steve’s not a math genius or anything, and he has no idea how much convention passes are for this thing, but he’s pretty sure there’s no way Dustin and Lucas have got enough birthday and Christmas money for bus tickets, convention tickets, and a hotel room, no matter how cheap. When he says as much, Dustin actually blushes, shrugging a little.

“I figured I could skip Camp Know Where this year. I get a scholarship for most of it, but Mom still has to pay part. It should be enough to cover the hotel and convention tickets.”

At that, Steve startles. “You love going to your nerd camp,” he says softly.

“Yeah,” Dustin agrees, but then he grins at his friends. “But I think this is more important this year…when are we gonna get another chance to visit Eddie?”

“Sometimes sacrifices have to be made for the good of the Party,” Lucas says, his voice deadly serious. “I was gonna go to that basketball clinic Mr. Newby put up flyers for last week, but I’d rather help pay for our tickets.”

“And I’ve been saving my allowance for some new paints, but, uh, I’m gonna pitch that in for food,” Will adds. For a moment, he looks a little embarrassed that his contribution is so much smaller than Dustin’s and Lucas’s, but the boys sling their arms around his shoulders, and the embarrassment quickly fades. “And! And! Mike’s pretty sure he can talk his parents into letting him come, too! Like, come up and stay with me and leave for the convention with us!”

Their excitement is palpable—word of the day, the day he finally registered for his first classes…Robin had come over and sat with him while he did it, and afterwards she’d squealed and hugged him and he could almost feel her pride and happiness wrapping around him like a blanket—and Steve can’t help the grin tugging at his mouth. Goddamn, he loves these little shits so much. The boys turn hopeful eyes on him again, Dustin bouncing a little on his toes.

“Sooooo?” he asks. “What do you say?”

“Please Steve?” Lucas says.

“Yeah, please?” Will smiles up at him sweetly and Steve shakes his head.

“When is this convention?” he sighs, nodding to himself when Dustin rattles off the dates. He doesn’t think it’ll conflict with his classes (he wonders if he’s ever going to get used to the swoop in his stomach when it hits him that he’s got classes coming up—he really got accepted to the program he wanted, he’s really going to school) and even if it does, it should be early enough that he won’t miss something earth-shattering.

Because really…

How could he say no?

He pretends to be thinking it over for a few moments, just to watch them squirm in suspense, before he sighs and nods. “All right, I’m in,” he says, and then turns back to his cabinets and pretends to ignore the hyper cheers that burst out of the boys. A second later, though, he lets out a sharp oof when he’s tackled from behind by three skinny sets of arms.

“Thank you!”

“Yes! I knew you wouldn’t let us down!”

“Oh my God, this is going to be awesome! Eddie’s gonna be so surprised!”

He manages to wrest himself around to face them, trying to pull his face into a stern frown and failing miserably if the way they’re grinning up at him is any indication. “All right, all right, if you’re not going to help me pack, then scram,” he orders, and is unsurprised when they all of a sudden need to start working on the parental pitch, now that they’ve secured a chaperone. He’s not even mad about it—he trusts Will to be careful with his things, but Dustin is often a bull in a china shop and Lucas is going through a growth spurt that has left him coltish and clumsy.

They file out of his apartment, talking about how they’re going to present their idea with the same intensity they strategize in the campaign. Dustin is muttering something about a slideshow while Lucas wonders if they can use the A/V club’s equipment as the door swings shut behind them. Steve carefully finishes packing the last of his plates away (he should probably leave at least one out, but he’s honestly too lazy…he can just eat off of paper plates for the last few days here) and manages to carry the box over to the neat stack he has going right by the door.

As soon as he sets it down, though, the full extent of what he’s just agreed to do hits him. His brain starts barrel-rolling again. And all he can do is sink down onto his coffee table and stare at his wide-eyed reflection in his dark TV screen.

What has he done?

From Ch 27 of Rolled a 1 on the Check, Rolled a 20 on the Save on AO3, by APuckish_Wit

[selene-and-the-cold]

OF/MD Drabble - Darkness

So, I was writing a fic for OF/MD, when all of a sudden, intrusive thoughts of angsty!Ed hijacked my brain.

There is sick!Ed (no snz, but coughing and fever) and a worried Stede. It is really just a tiny snipped of angst, but it wanted out so here it is :D

Somewhere past re-union, but please be gentle if anything here is not in accordance with S2 because I haven't seen it, yet, and only live on spoilers ^^

It's very vague, so could be at any point after their reunion.

***

The darkness was everywhere.

So heavy that Edward's eyes hurt from its pressure. An all-encompassing, deep, thick black leaden fog. Engulfing him. Choking him. Its pressure spread from his eyes to his head, and chest, invisible hands closing around his neck. He tried to get up, but the darkness sat so heavy on his chest that he could not move. His limbs were weighed down by the leaden darkness and he could not breathe. Could not move. His heart was racing, thumping hard against his rib-cage, urging him to fight, and rid himself of the darkness' crushing weight. He tried to scream – perhaps some of the guys would hear him, someone, anyone!

But as soon as he opened his mouth, the darkness streamed into it like thick black smoke, coiling into his mouth and throat like an angry black snake. He writhed restlessly, trying to push the weight off him with all his might, mouth agape in a silent, choked scream no one would hear.

I'm gonna die here, Ed suddenly thought. I'm gonna fucking die and no one will know. No one was here. No one cared. He was alone. And Stede was gone.

Ed tried to call out for help again. Tried to call out for Stede, but the weight on his chest became so heavy that Ed had to cough, his body shaking violently, beads of sweat dripping down his face, as he writhed, twisted, tossed and turned, fighting the darkness with all his might.

He coughed again, his lungs burning like someone had stabbed his lungs with a thousand tiny knives, each wound bleeding and hurting with every cough. By now, he had no idea if he was standing up, or lying down, floating or falling, Everything hurt, and it was so fucking hot in here... Too hot. Too dark. Too much.

And yet, he was painfully aware that something was missing... Something was not there. Someone... Stede! Stede was not here.

Stede...

Some time ago, he'd dreamed about Stede coming back. Of soft, blond waves of hair next to him on the pillow, close enough for him to touch and rake his fingers through. Of Stede's warm body next to his. Of tender kisses and of falling asleep in his arms, head resting against Stede's chest.

“Stede...”

Dry, cracked lips, barely moving, breathing Stede's name out into the stillness of the night between rattling coughs.

Stede had just gone out to the bathroom for a few moments, but Ed's harsh, labored coughs had called him back with urgency.

“Ed! I'm here. I'm here, love!”

Stede hurried over, his dressing gown fluttering behind him. Hand outstretched, he reached the bed and clasped Edward's hand, while he tried to pull him up with the other.

“Ed, please, try to sit up for me so you can breathe.”

Suddenly, Ed's eyes were wide open, staring at Stede with anxious fury, so painfully intense that his fear burnt through the darkness of their quarters.

“Stede..?,” Edward asked, a quiet sob that rang through Stede's very core. “You... You're here? I though you were a dream... I thought you wouldn't come back...,” Ed choked out between coughs, damp hair plastered to his feverish brow, brown eyes swimming with tears.

“Yes, Edward, I'm here..” Stede clasped Ed's hand a little tighter, greedily gathering Edward's in his grasp. “I'm sorry, I just went to the bathroom for a moment.”

Stede's chest ached with the all too familiar feeling of losing the one person he wanted to spend his life with. The one person who made life worthwhile. That very ache was staring back at him out of Edward's eyes. Seeing it there, knowing that he had put it there, was agony.

Stede helped Edward sit up, who was still wrecked with harsh coughs, his entire body trembling from the effort of choking out those coughs because he was so weak from fever.

Unable to do very much else, Stede just held him and rubbed his back in soothing circles, steadying his beloved, while the savage coughing fit ran its course. It was one of the worst yet, and Stede prayed to all the deities who cared to listen that they would soon arrive at Barataria Bay, where – at least according to Jim – a former nun with special healing powers had found shelter and a new home after being expelled from her convent.

As the heavy darkness slowly let off and gave Edward's lungs free, the coughing began to subside. Stede gently tightened his arms around Ed, as if he could absorb him into his body if he'd only tried hard enough.

“There we go... you'll soon be able to breathe better, Ed. Just let it out... take it slow.. one breath after the other.”

He rocked their bodies in a gentle, soothing motion, kissing Ed's hair, and damp forehead, doing anything he could, really, to show Ed that he was here.

“Stede... I thought you were gone?,” Edward sobbed, “I... I was drowning, choking, and you weren't there...”

“I know...” the knowledge of it would forever haunt Stede. He had been too afraid to stay. Too afraid to disappoint, blind enough not to notice that leaving was the biggest disappointment he could ever have put Ed through. The worst possible mistake.

“But now I'm here and I will never leave you again, Edward. I'm sorry... This time, me leaving was just a bad dream. And it will always be never more than a bad dream because I will never leave again – unless you tell me to.”

Edward violently shook his head and buried his face so deep into Stede's chest, that Stede could feel hot tears soaking through the fabric of his nightshirt.

The two men held each other for a long moment, soaking in each other's presence, until Stede could feel Edward become heavy in his arms, as Ed's meager well of strength ran dry.

“You should lie back down and rest, my love. Here.. we'll prop you up against these pillows so you can breathe a bit more easily.”

Edward still clawed at Stede's dressing gown, unwilling to let go.

“What about you?,” Ed rasped, but the intensity, which was lacking in his voice lingered in his gaze. Glassy eyes searching Stede's, their deep, dark color gleaming with the fear of being alone.

“I'll be here. Right beside you.”

[fatgumsurpremacy-remastered]

If its not too much to ask, can I request yandere demoman peppering kisses and bites all along s/o's neck all while telling them to try to stay quiet.

Tw: dubious consent, hickies, voice control, pet names, gn reader, regret, yanderes, mentions of explosives, heated scene, smut adjacent

Demo knew all too well that you’d be coming to drop off essentials for the team and he refused to let this opportunity go to waste.

He convinced Soldier to wake everyone early to get a jump on the enemy team. A plan the man commended him for.

This mission was going to be foolproof. The night before demo had lain his traps about the playing field, going the extra mile as to bury some extra sensitive explosives on enemy turf. One the explosions started you’d be here with the parcels and everyone would be too busy dealing with one another to watch as Demon stealthed away.

And it worked.

You wandered the metallic halls, searching for a place to set the cart you were pushing. You’d pushed your luck this far by even being close to the field, but with all of the luggage you were carrying you worried you’d be caught toting the opposing teams objects.

The task has always been daunting, but today had you tripping over yourself.

The men had gotten a head start, meaning you forgot where the hell their rooms were. And the layouts of the two buildings were entirely different save the outside. It was stress enducing, and you’d never been more on edge in this job.

You’d nearly pissed yourself when a thick arm pulled you into its body. With a scream you attempted a turn.

“Ah, and here I thought you’d come to expect my greetings!” The man broadcasted loudly, pressing his rough cheek into you affectionately. You held a hand to your chest, attempting to stablize your oxygen intake.

“FUCK Tavish!” You exclaimed, still processing the fiasco with a lame expression. He shook you a bit as you eased into him, prattling on about how he’d missed you. You felt his hand come to your rib cage to keep you steady. And you welcomed it by placing your hand over his.

You held onto his arm, concentrating mainly on the softness that he held in his chest, allowing your back to completely relax under him.

As you leaned back he backed into a room. With how calm you were you didn’t even notice you were in a completely different space.

Eyes closed, humming with the sway of the man behind you.

The whole thing felt… right. So soft and intimate, you’d not taken a second to think about whether or not the two of you were anything at all.

You didn’t take into account, with how sweet and casually the man spoke to you, just how many times he’d actually seen you.

How he knew you down to such a minute detail- that he could rattle your own life back at you from behind.

And this comfort is the same reason you didn’t notice the soft kisses that started at your temple.

In fact, you didn’t notice until his beard tickled the hairs at the back of your neck that he was kissing you at all!

His lips freckled little kisses about your check, down to your jaw. Your chin with a tilt of your head.

Then he got under, pressing just a bit further.

You giggled, playfully pushing his head away.

He snickered a bit, dryly unbeknownst to you.

Then he continued, letting little words of praise slip loose as he continued to plant small, calculated kisses down your neck. Though you only hummed contentedly at the feeling.

Until- at the junction of your clavicle and neck he sucked lightly.

The pressure elicited a sweet moan of surprise from you. You felt heat quickly drop to your legs, and rise to adorn your face.

You raised a hand to rest on the top of his head, arching a just a bit at he licked a stripe up to your shoulder. Then the nipped at you.

You huffed a bit, a high pitched noise coming through your nose as it did. He nearly purred at the reaction. Doing it yet again as he allowed his hand to rest at your hip, the other one covered your stomach, pulling you into him.

You rose your head, giving him better access, chasing the feeling you got from this man who was little more than an acquaintance.

“Fuck Tavvvv.” You drew his name out, the sweet abrevative causing him to moan against you. His hands tensed where they where, and the one on your stomach came up to rest on your neck again.

“Shh love. I’d you want me to keep going you’ve gotta stay quiet.” You nodded for him.

“You’re gonna be good?”

“Yes sir- please.” He caved, continuing his process.

He worked his tongue over the fading mark of where he’d nipped you. Pressing it into you just a bit harder. Then he nipped again. You thrust your hips forward, an action that stirred some sick feeling of pride in Demo.

You covered your mouth, finally allowing yourself to open your eyes and keep watch of the doorway before you.

“Tavvy there’s no one here.” You whined out, hoping to coax him into letting you moan. He shook his head and kept sucking at your neck, making his way up to your ears.

“Don’t do it dear.” You whimpered just under a whisper, a sound kept entirely for Tavish to hear.

You wanted to give him all the praise he deserved there. You instead rubbed little hearts into the fabric of his shirt as he nipped and sucked on your ear.

Shivers of stimulation coursed through you. Allowing Demo to feel just how good this was to you.

Just then the announcers voice boomed through the entire feild, marking the thirty second time limit.

Demo cringed and let you if you ungracefully. You let out a gasp of shock, immediately patting down your outfit as men from Demos team ran through the building.

The look on his face was one of pure agitation, his palm slid down exaggeratedly. And he let himself groan and pick up his shooter.

As he passed you with a smile he gave you a note. Running ahead with little more than a word.

You stared at the note in complete bafflement of the situation you were just in.

Then the reality of the matter set in.

You checked the mirror in the nearest bathroom to confirm your suspicion.

Your neck looked like it been flung through a meteor field. It was nearly completely covered in dark splotches that stretched from the front of your neck, damn near to the back.

You covered your mouth in pure realization of what you’d done.

The man had damn near trapped you in that situation and you had let yourself be drawn in by the allure of affection. You wanted to gag from the disappointment and shock that you’d let that happen.

As you reminisced on where you went wrong Demo detonated the entire area the rival team stood in.

He looked more triumphant than he had in ages, and he ran around keeping a close eye on the affairs. A keen sense of accomplishment and love blooming inside of him.

[talktomeinclexa]

On the Ground All Can Hear You Scream

By: TalktomeinClexa

Rating: Mature

Warnings: None in this chapter. Canon violence in others

Status: WIP

Summary: Novitiate Lexa is captured by reapers and wakes up locked in a cage, not knowing that the blonde who finds her there will change her destiny. Unless this enemy turns out to be who Fate had in store for her?

***

Chapter 12: Young People Are as Stubborn as It Gets

Standing among the fully bloomed trees covering Mount Weather’s slope, Clarke watched as a sizable troop rode away from Pax in a chorus of neighs and rattles. Once more, Lexa was leaving, and she had no way of knowing when they would see each other again.

Holding back a sniffle, she blamed the cloud of dust growing larger and larger for her pooling tears and gritted her teeth.

How many times would they find themselves in the same situation? How many times would she have to stay behind while the woman she loved headed for danger? If only her father had agreed to fight by Lexa’s side. Then, maybe, Clarke wouldn’t have had to hold the pieces of her heart together without as much as a goodbye to comfort her.

“Clarke,” a voice called her from behind, interrupting her bitter reflection.

The young woman turned around and took in the group gathered. More had come than she would have thought, but would it be enough to make a difference?

“We’re ready when you are,” Bellamy continued, resolution burning in his eyes.

For someone who had hated Trikru at first, his decision was almost comical. But after years of sporadic and then regular interactions, he had grown to appreciate—if not like—Lexa and her people. There were some he would even call friends. And Bellamy, for all his bullheadedness, was loyal to those he loved.

“It’s not too late to change your mind,” Clarke said, looking at her companions in turns. “We’re talking about going to war. The risks will be real. If you’re not sure, there’s no shame in staying here. All I ask is that you don’t warn my parents of our plan.”

Her friends remained quiet while her words sunk into their minds and they reexamined the upcoming dangers and losses.

As exciting as her plan had sounded at first, the reality was catching up with them. They would be away from the only home they had ever known and the comfort it provided. They would have to sleep on the ground, hunt, fight. Some of them could die.

Clarke observed them in silence, wondering if she was making the right choice. Should she have borrowed a horse and departed alone, in the middle of the night, rather than dragged them into that venture? And how would she forgive herself if something happened to one of them? If Monty, so smart and sweet, died? If Raven lost Finn, or the opposite? Would Bellamy ever absolve her if Octavia, his stubborn younger sister who refused to remain behind, didn’t come home?

“We’ll follow you anywhere, Clarke,” Wells said, earning himself a firm nod of approval from his companions. “Till the end.”

Keep reading

[spritehouse]

prompt: damaged wings

a wip for my bthb square damaged wings since bc i haven't been writing recently

⚠️Content Warnings: kidnapping, starvation/dehydration/general mistreatment⚠️

Spencer Reid dreams of being free.

He dreams of open-air so blue he could drown in it, swimming in the sky until the sun sinks, painting the horizon shades of pink.

He dreams of sitting on clouds—his brain has given up on reminding him they’re merely water vapor, gas, not solid or soft long ago—sleeping on the comfortable cushion of condensation instead of concrete.

Spencer dreams of the stars.

He dreams of gliding, wind in his hair, the moon illuminating his path as he connects the hole to heaven—pin-prick pokes in the atmosphere—floating in a sea of freedom.

He doesn’t wake, never fully, opening his eyes to the nightmare he escapes for a few hours every night, the cold darkness seeping back into his lungs after his imaginary breaths of fresh air, false hope only adding to the burning ache in his chest.

His back aches, the area where pale skin meets neglected brown, down feathers, burning and bloody from abuse, once brilliant wings hanging lamely from his shoulder blades.

Chains rattle when he moves, manacled ankles and wrists bruised from the constant weight of their restraints, heavy metal tethering the brunette to the floor of his cage.

Time passes—Spencer had stopped counting the seconds long ago, hours and days bleeding together, losing all meaning within the walls of his captivity—when the door on the opposite end of the dark room opens, sharp and painful white, clinical light streaming into the overcrowded space.

A few mutters drift through the stale air, new captives whose hope remains intact, dreams waiting for hands to break with skin and bones, sparks yet to be snuffed out, though most of the captured creatures remain silent; their kidnappers prefer those who can hold their tongues, punishing those who do not learn this quick enough.

Hands—calloused, worn, some bloody, though everyone knows it isn’t human blood staining pristine skin—reach out, claws extending towards bars, refilling bone-dry water dishes and barren food bowls, a few fingers straying to stoke wings and pet tails, touch lingering like a blade over the recipient’s head, a threat.

They have caught their attention; they will be gone, presumably dead, or worse, but gone nonetheless.

The newcomers devour the food, gulp the water, and lick everything dry, but Spencer and those in the back know better. Their food is sparse—only what they need to survive—they must ration it; those who do not learn this fast enough will starve.

Even caged, they are fighting; some creatures, beings, a population less than human fight to survive, outlasting the others in vain hopes of rescue while others, the hopeless, those in the back where the light barely reaches, battle instinct—parched throats and empty stomachs, beating wings, restless tails, twitching whiskers—fighting the remnants of fight or flight responses, waiting for the day their bodies give out, releasing them from their confines.

Spencer stares at his bowl when the hands reach through the bars, hard pellets, like kibble, clinking against metal, unmoving; his stomach has long since stopped aching for sustenance, hunger pangs fading to white noise.

The hands retract, then return, filling the second bowl with water.

His body relaxes as much as it can, shoulders slumping when the dirty hands retract again, shadowed body walking around his cage, moving on, heavy footsteps echoing through the air of held breaths as they leave his sight.

And then the touch comes.

It fills his senses, consuming his thoughts—seconds of physical contact after torturous deprivation—cold fingers stroking his wings, the unwanted touch invading his senses and consuming his thoughts until every nerve ending is yelling run.

And Spencer screams.

[oldxenomorph]

i was going to lay down and take a nap until i saw something that simply will not leave my head. i must scream about it. (MASSIVE HADES 2 SPOILERS UNDER THE CUT)

(from this post)

i've been unhealthily obsessive with the chaos-chronos storyline (because i NEED to know where is nyx), eating up every crumb i can find on youtube and in the hades 2 tag and oh my god. puts my head in my hands.

i still would like to know exactly how chronos was able to overpower nyx, considering her power and, again, her connection to the underworld. hopefully someone comes across that or it gets revealed in a later update. but! are we in a nightmare scenario where chronos has everyone imprisoned, including nyx and the fates, when he says "but now i have them all!"? violently rattling the bars to my cage! i'm dying here!

crying and throwing up wishing chaos was able to exchange the fates for nyx and that they're hiding her/protecting her somewhere, maybe within themself. (i don't necessarily agree with the interpretation i've been seeing that chaos looks like megaera aside from the ponytail. also we know where meg is: she's imprisoned with the rest of the house of hades members. but anything's possible at this point, maybe supergiant will surprise me.)

---

ever since i learned about chronos wanting to go after the fates, i've been thinking a lot more about the relationship they and the fates have with the great family.

first off, i'm of the firm believer that the fates have no jurisdiction over the great family. as the children of nyx, they are considerably younger than most, if not all, members of the great family. even the emperor is older than them. seeing that the great family operates beyond space and time, they are governed by their own strange beliefs about destiny. as a result they treat the fate with mostly indifference.

that being said, the fates do know about the great family and they know about the emperor. they know that the night and extinction must be brought together, that after a time apart they must be reunited; the night must endure the wait and all that may come to pass in the meantime, and extinction must endure a time spent amongst humanity and claim their inheritance. the fates know about the cycles of extinction and that one day, it will come for them.

i still can't get out of my head the idea of nyog'sothep making herself known to chaos during this crisis. i don't think chaos knew or even understood why nyx eventually became estranged from them, only that their relationship had deteriorated. i'm not sure if chaos knew that nyog'sothep has something to do with it, that she was the one who drew nyx out so she could be with the emperor these first several billion years while the universe cooled and sorted itself out.

THE CYCLE BEGINS: nyog'sothep became a mother to nyx. she taught her the ways of the great family. her servitors dressed the young goddess. for a time, her domain was nyx's home for a time. nyog'sothtep brought her to the emperor when she was ready. as a mother, nyog'sothtep is stern but loving, she expects one to find their role within the family and fulfill their duties; she is the rationality to nyarlathotep's chaos, she is her parent's deepest thoughts. (insert more about nyog'sothep and azatoth later, i'm starting to get sleepy.)

typically nyog'sothep does not involve herself with matters beyond her domain, the violet sephulchre, or the great family. but the crisis, her genuine worry for nyx, her wanting to collect the emperor's centipede emissary before chronos noticed its presence, made her do something she had no plan on doing until now: making contact with chaos.

i'll have to think more about what their first meeting was like, but i feel like both entities come to an understanding of one another. nyog'sothep would have notices the changes in chaos, seeing that their relationship with nyx has greatly improved over the years. i do think nyog'sothtep would still be genuinely upset that nyx was put in danger, than her power was somehow over ridden. such a thing must not stand. if nyx is safe, then i can see nyog'sothep at first offering to keep nyx within the violet sepulchre, but would have to be convinced to allow chaos to keep nyx with them. if chronos still has nyx and the fates, then i think nyog'sothep would be Incredibly Upset. if that's the case, then (the cycle continues) like zagreus, melinoe may have to help get nyog'sothtep to forgive chaos. maybe nyx will have to get involved when the crisis is over.

ALSO, NOT EXACTLY A PARALLEL, but man. chaos giving the fates over to chronos to save nyx. then thousands of years later, nyx giving the emperor-as-shepard's body to liara to give to cerberus in order to save her.

screams and passes out.

[baneshake]

My grandfather will be dead soon. Statistically, to most of the people who will ever read this post, he will already be dead. His cancer has spread into his bones, possibly his brain, but that won't even be what does it. It may be his kidneys failing, or it may be his heart finally succumbing to the final results of a massive heart attack he had when I was young. I got the news today, right after I clocked out of work, that his doctor approved to take him off of any medications other than comfort care in his final... days? Hours? It's genuinely better this way; he doesn't want to suffer any longer. A couple of nights back, he awoke my parents, rattling the rails on his hospice bed set up in his living room, in front of his big television, temporarily delirious. "Get me out of here!" he cried, too weak to lift his legs up over the rail. "I feel like a rat in a cage." Hearing this news today, that he is getting the option that he wants, that will be most merciful to him, made me cry harder than I have for him yet.

Knowing that he will be gone soon, amongst everything else, is a suffocating feeling, but not in the ways most people will initially assume. He and I share a name; he has always gone by "Bill," shortening our middle name down, but he is Charles William jr. I'm number IV, and I've always just been Charlie. Sr. was Charlie as well. I knew my great-grandfather into my teenage years, which is fortunate compared to what so many people get to have with a great-grandparent; it also allowed me to see more context than I would have otherwise. That Charlie and Bill did not have a smooth relationship. Things were rocky between father and son, and Charles III was even part of mediating through things so they could both come to closure in that Charlie's dwindling twilight years. Bill and Charles III likewise butted heads and had a strained relationship for some time, and while they reconciled enough at a younger age to overlook most of it, the pattern is there. We Charles have a pattern of clashing with our fathers.

Skip a generation, and you clear up the issue. Charlie Sr. was so proud when his grandson, Charles III, told him he was becoming Pastor Chuck. It's much easier for a Charles to connect with his grandfather. Similarly, while Bill isn't the most intuitive at saying the words out loud, I know without any doubt that that man loves me genuinely unconditionally. There's not a shared point between our circles on this venn diagram, and he has never cared. Bill is a man of cars, engines, drag racing. He was big and bold and secure in himself without a second thought, for better or for worse, before his health declined. That was never me; I was always the awkward, quieter writer kid, trying to coax very complex and abstract thoughts into something useful instead of always just struggling with self-esteem and doubts. Even though I never cared for Corvettes or Forty Fords, I didn't have to for him. I don't have to for him.

It's suffocating knowing there will just be two Charles remaining soon. We Charles have a pattern of clashing with our fathers, but I internalize that has hard as I can. I always have. Pastor Chuck's love has only ever felt conditional. I put on a pretty façade to keep that clash internal, and it tears me up, and sometimes I just want to scream and let it all out, but it keeps that conditional love where it needs to be. Pastor Chuck is a big, public regional leader in the "Global Methodist Church," the splitting side of the schism over the United Methodist Church being less bigoted over LGBT rights than it used to be. Charlie is openly bisexual to those he knows closely enough, and was bisexual a long time before I was ready to accept it. Pastor Chuck is a fundamentalist, determined to know every way the Bible is the inerrant word of the Omni-God that he possibly can. Charlie left the faith a long time ago, knowing there was no way to get there without starting at the conclusion already. I know unambiguously after years of contemplation that it would be physically impossible to believe in what Pastor Chuck does without a dramatic, unwelcome change to my physical brain itself.

And I feel guilty, so very guilty, letting this eat up even the portion of my attention that it does. It's time to mourn Granddaddy Bill, the beloved grandfather I won't have much longer. He will soon no longer exist in any sense that matters outside of memories. Yet I'm still stuck mourning one further support in the foundation built to keep the clash with my father at bay. I know that once Granddaddy is gone, that fact becomes one further point of contention that would decide Dad's conditional love. Pastor Chuck is losing his father on this Earth. Charlie is losing his Grandfather permanently.

I wrote this post up as a comment on a shockingly timely video Big Joel uploaded about death. Some of it was me processing through these very complex thoughts, and some of it was a way to express thanks in a very weird way, I suppose. Mostly, I think I'm just trying to externalize these thoughts. I'm tired of having to be the one bottled up, making concessions for the sake of civility. I think I primarily just don't want to be alone with these thoughts right now.

[lifeslittleinnuendos]

What's the hardest lesson life has taught you so far?

Love Hurts

Love hurts when you’re 4 years old and hungry. The lights from the upstairs bedroom at 2 in the afternoon are off, door closed, drapes pulled tight. Dark. Depressed. So she opened the fridge and pulled out the package of hot dogs, climbed onto the counter and put them into the microwave. A thousand explosions from inside as the skin burst open with the heat. She took the knife to cut it in pieces just the way mom did, and she watched as it slipped and sliced straight into her thumb, lodged in the skin, watching the river of blood trickling down her hand.

Love hurts when you’re 10 years old. In Nashville, at a daycare. Dropped off while your parents find help. Your younger brother terrified, screams and cries every time he’s left on his own. And so you spend the next 10 hours entertaining him, talking to him, playing with him. Exhausted. And every time you try to close your eyes his tears bring you back. And you spend the next decade of your life both protecting and hating him.

Love hurts when you’re sitting on the street corner under the tree. 16, without a license, all your eggs firmly planted into one basket, waiting for that boy to come back, to tell you that he loves you, to give a piece of himself back to you, and he never does because you’re asking him to be the float that keeps your head above water and no one is meant to bare that burden.

Love hurts when you’re 18 years old and getting ready to leave for college. No idea what lies ahead. All her friends are picking out college classes and what dorm stuff they’ll buy. Going to visit campuses on her own. She’s lost herself in someone else’s life so she doesn’t have to face what it means to spend the next 2 months without her mom again as she tries to put her life back together somewhere else, alone and terrified.

Love hurts when you’re 22. So desperate to feel something solid in her life that she climbs into a stranger’s car for the night. Skin on skin. Anything to keep the loneliness at bay. The next morning she wakes up to sheer panic. No money. No phone. No car. Hungover. Sliding out someone else’s bedroom window to walk across town and find home.

Love hurts at 24. Looking to see her value through the eyes of the boy in front of her. She let herself be rated 1-10. Not small enough. Not talented enough. Not driven. So she stopped eating. She kept drinking. And she moved through life as fast as she could. If she never stopped moving, the pain wouldn’t have a chance to knock her to her knees. Using every ounce of effort left in her body, she supported him through the end of his world until it finally took the last bit of integrity she possessed.

Love hurts at 32. Looking at the man she had built her life with and choosing forgiveness once again. Why? Another violation. Why couldn’t she find the anger centered inside her body. Hell, why couldn’t she find anything in her body but the river of intense longing, a cavern of abandonment in her chest. Left for another woman and choosing to try yet again.

Love hurts when you can’t find yourself. When you’re sitting at the stoplight on your way to work, and it hits you, hard, the wind pouring from your lungs like the sails unfurling in a hurricane. She couldn’t find herself. Where was her worth? She breathed in gasping for the oxygen to see her through. She emblazoned words on her rib cage so that every. Single. Time. She took off her shirt to see her naked body, it would be a reminder. “Know your worth.” The words rattling inside “we accept the love we think we deserve.”

Love still hurts at 36. But now she recognizes the pain has lapped at the edges, softening every side. She’s relearning that her value is intrinsic. Empathy and kindness, courage and bravery stand where once she was met with fear. Passion and vulnerability unearthed in each and every weathering storm. A deep knowing greets her from the inside as she stands very still in the tornado of the pulsing anxiety. Love hurts but maybe it’s meant too. Love will always hurt, but the secret is never to leave her own side. Hand on heart, one slow breath at a time, to know that she will always be enough and will never leave her side.

[sinning-on-a-sunday]

otherworldly ~ coraline!au (pt.3)

PAIRING ~ jimin x reader

GENRE ~ horror/thriller

WORD COUNT ~ 20K

SUMMARY ~ when you discover a tiny door in your home that leads to a much better version of your own life, it seems too good to be true. little do you know, the man posing as your boyfriend may be a lot more dangerous than you care to admit. and he is not intent on letting you leave.

WARNINGS ~ profanity, ANGST, relationship struggles, kidnapping, general creepiness, guilt tripping, spiders, violence, mentions of starvation, minor body mutilation, insects, restraints, blood, rats, non-graphic body horror, slight gore, needles/impalement, referenced medical horror, slight injury, jimin is a creep, dub-con kiss.

A/N ~ thank you for your patience!! I hope you like it :)

PART 1 PART 2

The floorboards aren’t enough to ground you. Not when your heart is about to pound out of your rib cage, shaking hands scrabbling for purchase on something solid, something real.

How does one ground themselves after crawling out of hell?

Sucking in quick gulps of air, you struggle to give your lungs a little relief from the dry burn. You manage to calm your breathing after a few painful minutes, but it doesn’t ease the tight, clenched fist in your chest.

You look back at the little door. It stands silent, unmoving. The wood doesn’t rattle, the knob doesn’t jiggle. You grab the key with shaking fingers and shuffle to the other side of the room.

Calm down, you remind yourself when your pulse spikes again. It’s okay. You’re safe, you’re safe. He can’t follow you out here. He can’t leave.

A chill crawls up your spine. None of them can.

The realization is heart-wrenching, enough to make tears pool in your eyes, stomach bobbing into your throat.

You left them there. You abandoned them, left them to fend for themselves against that...that thing.

Guilt obstructs reason. It doesn’t matter that you know they couldn’t follow you, that they couldn’t leave even if they wanted to. All you can think of is the fact that they’re still trapped while you walk free.

You picture Taehyung curled up on that dirty mattress, tear-stained, clutching his stuffed Pomeranian until his fingers go numb. Numb enough to pretend it’s real. Would he ever get out of that room? Who’s to say he isn’t suffering a punishment far worse than a simple time out.

What will happen to Jungkook without you there to cushion the blow? Now that you’ve seen the extent of Other Jimin’s hot temper, there’s no telling what he wouldn’t do in a fit of rage. And now, without you there, he’s got nothing to lose.

The digital clock on the mantel distracts you before you can spiral into a full-blown anxiety attack.

6:37 P.M.

Your brows furrow. That can’t be right. You remember leaving the real world a little after 3 o’clock, surely it’s been more than just a few hours?

That’s not why it feels wrong, though. These late afternoon hours are Jimin’s most productive. Most nights he works straight through dinner, hunched over his desk until his eyelids are sagging and his brain is too sluggish to pump out a single sentence.

It’s about time for his ritual evening cup of coffee, shouldn’t the brewer be churning? The air should be alive with the sound of clicking keys, the shuffle of fabric as Jimin bounces his knee, the drumming of his fingernails on the tabletop.

But the house is quiet. You can’t even hear the creak of a chair.

At first, all you can manage is a whisper. A soft Jimin against the horrible silence that sounds more like a puff of air than a name.

You scramble to your feet. None of the lights are on, like no one’s home and hasn’t been since before the sun set.

The kitchen is empty. You spot the car keys on the counter, Jimin’s scarf discarded beside them. Now you’re calling for him, your voice an unpleasant echo over the sound of rapid footsteps.

Rumpled sheets greet you in the spare bedroom, glaring evidence of your fight and the fact that he spent last night alone. Another flood of anxiety ripples through your body.

You’re practically screaming his name by the time you kick open the bathroom door. Still nothing.

You fly down the hallway, barely sparing a glance into his office in your haste to get to the master bedroom, but a flash of light makes you skid to a stop.

It’s the soft glow of a computer screen, half obscured by an uncomfortably bent, sweater-clad back.

Your breathing is still strained when you step into the room.

Jimin is slumped over the table, head cradled in one folded arm, with his cheek squished and his lips pressed into a sleepy pout. His eyelids flutter ever so slightly behind his crooked glasses like he’s in the middle of a dream.

Instant relief. You release the sigh lodged in your throat and let some of the tension in your shoulders melt away.

He’s here. He’s safe and warm and real.

You reach forward to touch him, to feel his solid body under your fingertips. He doesn’t stir until you give him a gentle shake.

“Jimin,” you whisper, and the name feels so right coming out of your mouth now that it’s directed at the right person.

His eyes crack open, back muscles rippling under your hand as he moves to sit up.

“Hm?” A confused groan falls from his swollen lips.

“You fell asleep at your desk again,” you explain, massaging between his shoulder blades.

Jimin rubs his still bloodshot eyes with one hand while the other runs through his hair.

“I did? Ah, sorry. I know you hate it when I do that.”

He looks up at you sheepishly from under his lashes, and you can’t help the smile that breaks out across your face.

Those full, flushed cheeks, that golden skin, those warm brown eyes. Full of color, full of life.

This is Jimin. Your Jimin.

“Come on, workaholic. Let’s go to bed,” you say, slipping one arm around his waist as you lead him towards the hall.

A shy blush burns at the tips of his ears, but he still returns the smile and wraps his own arm around you, keeping you pressed against his side.

The two of you waddle over to the stairs, refusing to let each other go enough to walk properly.

No spare room for him tonight. You don’t think you’ll be able to get a wink of sleep unless Jimin is right by your side.

It’s barely seven o’clock, but Jimin’s movements are lethargic, like he’s drunk and can’t find his footing. You barely have time to slip his glasses off his nose before he face-plants on the bed.

“You’re more tired than usual. Burning the candle at both ends again, hm?”

Your affectionate scolding only causes him to smile more, enough to make the corners of his eyes crinkle. Slipping under the covers, you lay facing him on your side, and to your surprise, he scoots closer until your faces are only inches apart.

“I didn’t get any sleep last night,” Jimin replies, his gaze flickering over your features now that he’s close enough to get an intimate look.

“Oh?” you reply with a yawn. You’re ready to knock out too, the trauma of today’s events taking their toll.

“I can’t sleep without you there,” he says, and your drooping eyelids snap back open.

That’s certainly not what you were expecting. A small smile creeps onto your face at his confession, pleased that he still wants you, still needs you.

No wonder he’s so tired. If he can’t seem to sleep without you, then last night in the guest room must’ve been torture.

Jimin’s eyes linger on the way your lashes flutter, fighting to stay open.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out suddenly.

You look up to find him guiltily averting his gaze.

“I’ve been a real asshole lately. I shouldn’t have treated you that way. I let the stress of work get to me and took it out on you. I’m sorry. Work is just so...ugh, and I know I shouldn’t have made you deal with my bullshit but I just...I just thought you’d always be there. And then I got jealous because it dawned on me that maybe you’d had enough of my shit, but I swear I wasn’t trying to push you away I just—”

You stop his rambling with a finger against his lips. His breath catches in his throat, and you’re unsure if it’s because he’s anticipating what you’re about to say or because you haven’t touched him like this in a while.

“I appreciate your apology.”

It’s very carefully worded, and Jimin doesn’t miss that.

“So...are we good?” His voice betrays just how nervous he is, shaky and hitching with each inhale.

There’s a pause before you answer.

“I...don’t know yet. I don’t think you realize how much you hurt me, Jimin.”

You think you see his lip quiver ever so slightly, but it’s trapped between his teeth before you can be sure.

“I understand. I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness, I know I don’t deserve a second chance. I really fucked everything up this time—”

“Jimin,” you interrupt him sternly.

He clamps his mouth shut and curls in on himself like a frightened turtle.

“No more talk like that. No more self-destruction.”

You reach up to card a hand through his bleach-fried hair, and he noticeably relaxes.

You don’t know it, but he’s missed being this close to you. Sleeping curled up against your body, snuggled into your warmth. It seems like a luxury he doesn’t deserve. It’s something he’s been denying himself every night for the past few months. He hasn’t been making as much progress with work as he’d like, so he’s been holding himself back from cuddling with you until he feels he’s worthy of affectionate touch.

He knows he still doesn’t deserve it, but it feels too good to pull away.

“Forgiveness can always be earned, and I’m still willing to give it, if you’re willing to change.”

“Yes,” Jimin blurts out with startling enthusiasm. “Yes, yes, I want to. I want to be better for you.”

The corner of your mouth tugs up. There’s that affinity for praise you know and love.

“Things are going to be different from now on,” you say, calm enough to soothe his nerves, quiet enough to let him know you’re serious.

“I think we both need to work on our communication.”

Jimin ducks his head again, another shameful blush flaring on the apples of his cheeks.

“I know, I understand. I’m...”

Something gets caught in his throat. He gulps down the lump, licks his lips nervously.

“I’m really sorry, Y/N. Really,” he finally chokes out.

“I know, baby. I know. We’ll talk more in the morning, okay?”

You both know this conversation isn’t over. There’s still a lot more to discuss, inner thoughts laid out, compromises to be made, but it’s for another time. Right now all you want to do is fall asleep next to your real partner and revel in the fact that things will get better.

Right now, it’s so easy to believe that things will get better.

“Can I have a goodnight kiss?” you ask playfully, and he knows it’s not really a question, but rather you giving him permission, judging by the way he’s been eyeing your lips for the past five minutes.

Jimin’s whole face twists into a near-blinding smile, before he jumps at the chance and smashes his mouth against yours. His grip around your body tightens, like he can keep you from disappearing if he holds you tight enough. Fingers curling at the edge of your jaw, he doesn’t break away until his lungs are burning, letting out a soft, barely-audible whine at the fact that he needs to pull away to get a proper breath.

A dozen frantic pecks follow. They don’t stop until your whole face has been stamped with his lips and you’re giggling uncontrollably.

“What am I going to do with you?” you sigh into his chest.

Jimin slides his fingers up your spine, sweeping deftly over the spot where your hair meets the nape of your neck until he gets the response he’s looking for. He always used to tease you about your catlike reaction, how it’s so easy for him to draw the shivers out of your body with a single touch.

“You’re gonna whip me into shape, that’s what you’re gonna do,” he replies, now petting the back of your head with slow, gentle strokes. 

You let out a content hum as exhaustion sinks its claws deeper into your body. It’s really starting to set in, the realization that you’re safe, you’re okay, nothing bad can happen anymore.

How stupid you were to believe that.

Jimin whispers one last “I love you,” but you’ve already slipped away.

Sleep doesn’t bring comfort, not when you’re tormented by dreams of spiderwebs and ink black eyes, of cold, cramped rooms behind mirrors and needles piercing through flesh. That night, little dark shapes skitter behind your eyelids. Someone’s—something’s—low voice breathes in your ear, meaningless words that sound more like growls than decipherable speech. 

You only sleep for a few hours. A particularly bad nightmare jolts you awake, but Jimin, being the heavy sleeper that he is, lays undisturbed. Sitting up in bed, panting and sweat-slick, you grip the sheets in tight fists.

Something unpleasant prickles under your skin, and it takes you a few seconds to realize it’s the itch that comes with being watched. It takes you even longer to realize that there’s just something not right about the room you’re in.

The window is bolted, good. The closet door is closed, good. Jimin is still sleeping peacefully by your side, excellent. What is it that’s just not—?

A twitch of movement out of the corner of your eye. It’s barely anything, but it’s enough to catch your attention.

Your heart is in your throat by the time you gather enough courage to turn your head.

Sitting in the chair next to the bed, the chair you’re positive was empty when you went to sleep, is that infernal doll.

The button eyes are too shiny, so shiny they look almost wet. Wide, unblinking, and definitely watching you.

The urge to scream is very tempting, but you can’t risk waking Jimin. Pretending to be calm and collected is even harder, especially with that thing’s glassy-eyed stare trained on your every move.

A horrible, bitter taste burns the back of your throat. With the way your stomach ripples and your breathing shakes in your own ears, you feel like you could puke all over the sheets at any second.

But you hold your own, leisurely swinging your legs over the mattress, softly placing your feet on the floor, standing up slowly like the doll isn’t even there.

Because you can’t let it see your fear. You can’t let him know you’re scared.

Jimin is so blissfully unaware, lying there curled up on his side with his cheek cradled in his hands.

A smile tugs itself onto your lips at the sight of him, and you take a moment to bend down, brush his bangs back, and plant a kiss on his forehead. He hums softly, snuggling deeper into the blankets.

The doll just sits there silently.

You’ve made up your mind. You’re not about to tolerate spies in your house.

Stomping over to the occupied chair, you grab the doll by the neck and race down the stairs two at a time. You shove your feet into your rain boots and shrug on your coat, slamming the front door on your way out.

The ground is soggy from the recent rain and the cold bites, but the fresh air does wonders for your nausea. It’s an ungodly hour of the morning, so the sky is still pitch dark and the air is eerily quiet. You’re thankful for the full moon and the light it sheds on the winding dirt path.

The only sound in your ears is the slosh of mud under your boots and the crunch of gravel. It grounds you, eventually syncing with the rhythm of your breathing, your heartbeat dwindling down to a dull thrum.

It’s a longer walk than you thought. By the time you reach the crest of the hill, your toes are numb from the cold and your nose feels like it could snap off. Your grip on the doll, however, has only tightened with each step.

The clearing is just as bare as you remember it. Stripped tree branches, brown grass, and at the center of it all, a ring of toadstools.

You don’t waste any time, dropping to your knees despite the mud and clawing at the dirt until your fingers hit solid wood. Dragging the heavy cover aside, you peer down the wide, black opening of the well until you feel as if the darkness is about to reach out and grab you. You can’t see the bottom, just the moss climbing up the stone walls.

With one last shaky inhale, you let the doll slip through your fingers and tumble down the dark tunnel. The sound of it meeting the water never comes.

When you return, the clock reads 3:28 AM in bright, electric green. You tell yourself that’s why it feels so strange, because of the odd hour. You’re supposed to be asleep, that’s why the house feels so achingly empty.

When you drag your tired limbs up the stairs, down the hall, through the doorway, and find an empty bed, you think nothing of it.

Jimin’s probably in the bathroom or getting a glass of water, maybe working in his office after a bout of late night inspiration.

You slip back under the covers, draw your knees up to your chest, and close your eyes.

Ten minutes pass. Fifteen. He’s probably just piddling around the house.

Twenty. Thirty. He probably just can’t sleep. He’s probably downstairs watching TV. With every passing second, your fidgeting grows a little more restless.

Everything is fine, you tell yourself over and over. And you want to believe it so bad, but it’s been over half an hour and Jimin still hasn’t come back yet. Heat prickles under your skin, sweat collects at the back of your neck. Reaching over, you find that Jimin’s side of the bed has gone cold.

For the umpteenth time that night, you know that something is wrong.

Calling out his name only makes the silence ring louder, echoing mockingly against the thin walls. It’s broken only by the sound of the blankets being ripped off your body and the pound of your feet on the floorboards.

The master bathroom is empty, so is the spare bedroom and the storage closet. Downstairs, you find nothing but darkness and disappointment. The kitchen is barren, the dining room is deserted, the office is vacant.

You’re not prepared for what you find in the living room. It’s uninhabited like everywhere else, though definitely not the same as you left it.

Scuff marks on the wood near the little door’s threshold, faint but definitely there. Jimin’s glasses lay open and discarded on the floor.

Then there’s the little door itself, open a crack with the key sticking out of the lock. There’s no light seeping through the opening, no glowing blue tunnel beckoning you forward. Just a sliver of darkness so thick it looks like a tear in the fabric of reality. If light can shine, then this darkness bleeds.

You can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t even shiver in fear with how tight your muscles are. All you can do is stand there in your cement-filled shoes, plunging, sinking deeper into the icy waters of dread and helplessness.

There’s no doubt in your mind that something is watching just behind the crack in the door.

The thought of approaching it leaves an ugly squirming feeling in the pit of your stomach, but the thought of it sitting there open and unlocked is much, much worse.

So, with trembling hands, you snatch the metal poker from beside the fireplace, and take the first hesitant step forward. You grip the handle tight as the space between you and the little door grows smaller and smaller.

You’re fully expecting something to reach out and grab you when you lunge forward and kick the wood hard, weapon poised and ready to strike, but the door closes without a struggle. Using your knee as a barricade, you twist the key until the lock clicks into place with a satisfying thunk.

Panting and covered in a thin sheen of sweat, you fall back on your elbows with a jerk, scrambling along the floor until your shoulder hits the opposite wall.

Then come the tears. Bitter, frustrated tears.

How naive you were to think that the nightmare was over. How stupid you were to let Jimin get involved in this mess. The mess you caused by indulging in your own fantasies.

You couldn’t save Jungkook, you couldn’t save Taehyung, you couldn’t even save your true boyfriend.

Vision blurred and watery, you crawl over to Jimin’s fallen glasses and clutch them to your chest.

There’s a noise from the window, a soft pitter pattering of small feet. The last fat drops of moisture roll down your cheeks as you look up.

Two shiny yellow eyes stare back at you. They’re surrounded by a dark shape, fluffy around the edges, elegantly silhouetted against the few wisps of moonlight.

It’s the cat, you realize when it paws at the glass and exposes four pink toe beans. The feline waits impatiently as you push yourself off the floor and slide open the window.

“Hello,” you say, unsure if he will reply this time.

The cat hops off the window sill, collar jingling with every graceful movement. He bows his head in your direction, a silent greeting.

“What brings you here?” Your voice noticeably wavers, you can feel yourself choking on a sob.

The cat looks at the little door, at Jimin’s glasses gripped in your hands, then back up at you.

“Do you know what happened to him?”

He blinks and tips his head down. You take that as a yes.

Before you can ask anything else, he turns and saunters out of the room. You follow his swishing black tail, the metal poker still in your left hand, trying and failing to swallow down the lump in your throat.

He leads you to the end of the hall, stopping just in front of the full-length mirror, and sits down with a twitch of his ears.

Obviously, you’re a little confused. Your focus flickers between the cat and where his intense gaze is pointed. He just stares straight ahead, stoic as ever.

Then the glass starts to fog up, though it looks like it’s coming from the opposite side. A cloudy film seeps frost-like over the surface until your reflection is completely shrouded.

A shape, a white shadow, emerges from the milky blankness, moving closer until it’s pressed right up against the glass.

It’s a hand, you realize. It’s someone’s hand.

The hand becomes an arm, the arm becomes a torso, the torso becomes a person. A person with bleach blonde hair and tear-stained cheeks.

“Jimin?”

The image clears to reveal his trembling form, dressed only in pajamas. His eyes are red and glistening, beautiful plump lips bitten to shreds. There’s spider silk tangled in his hair.

“Jimin! Oh my fucking god, Jimin!”

He looks absolutely frantic, expression blown wide with panic as his eyes dart all over your face like it’s the last time he’ll ever see it. Both of his hands are flat against the mirror, sliding, pushing, pounding in their desperate attempt to get to you.

But it’s no use. Even as you line your own palms up against his and press as hard as you can, the cruel barrier won’t budge.

“Jimin! Please, what can I do? What do I do, Jimin!”

He shakes his head vigorously. His mouth is moving, but you can’t hear anything, just the sound of your heaving sobs.

Fresh tears fall over the already existing tracks on Jimin’s cheeks. Behind him, you can see mismatched furniture and blue wallpaper. 

“Please, please, please...” You’re not sure what you’re begging for, but at this point, it doesn’t matter. He can’t answer you anyway.

Jimin leans forward to breathe on the glass, fogging it up even more, and uses the tip of his finger to write two gut-wrenching words:

ƎM ƎVAƎ⅃

You look up at him in horror. He wants you to leave him there, leave him with that fucking monster who will do God knows what to him.

Jimin’s lip quivers as he mouths something to you, and you don’t need to hear him to know what he’s saying.

I love you.

The mirror clears almost instantly. Jimin’s face melts away, leaving you to stare at your own pitiful reflection.

You scream his name until your throat is raw, slamming your fists against the mirror, blinking through the burning tears.

Grabbing the poker again, you cock your arm back and bring it down in one powerful swoop. Crack. Crack. Crack.

You swing the heavy metal rod until the glass shatters and falls over you like razor-sharp rain. The only thing behind the mirror is a slab of cardboard.

The cat watches you silently, wide-eyed. Tiptoeing between the jagged shards, he pads over to where you’re sat hugging your knees and rubs his head against your arm. You barely notice his attempt to comfort you. Your chest is heaving too much, blood pulsating in your veins, in your skull.

He sits with you while you cry, brushing your skin with his soft tail every so often. He sits with you even when the first slivers of daylight trail across the floor.

When day breaks, you’re numb. Dehydrated, trembling, aching all over. Your body is sore from sitting on the hard floor for too long, the morning chill seeping bone-deep and leaving your skin cold to the touch.

Apparently, the cat decides that enough is enough. He bumps his head against your arm to get your attention, but your red-rimmed eyes are stuck staring at the glass shards strewn about the floor.

He nudges you with his tail, tugs at your shirtsleeve with his teeth, even gently scratches your exposed ankles.

“Knock it off!” you snap, shooing him away, but he just struts right back to your side.

He’s looking at you expectantly, and you can practically hear the question in his eyes.

Well, what are you going to do now?

Your gaze trails off, glancing back at the broken mirror, at Jimin’s glasses in the palm of your hand.

This bad dream isn’t something you can just wake up from.

It’s clear that running solves nothing. You tried it once, and it only came back to bite you. All that did was hurt the people you care about.

The people I care about, you think bitterly. Now trapped in a nightmare, all because of me.

They didn’t deserve this. Not even Jimin, no matter how bad he’s treated you.

The cat sits on his hind legs and watches the different emotions play out across your face. Regret, pain, fear, doubt, and then, something ignites in your expression like a switch being flipped. A fire behind your eyes that could only be described as pure, unfiltered determination.

No, they won’t suffer any longer. I won’t allow it.

You grip Jimin’s glasses so tight it’s a miracle they don’t snap in half.

I’m going to fix this.

The presence of sunlight makes your task a whole lot less daunting. The cat’s company is a nice bonus too, with his calm yellow eyes and silent encouragement. Not that backing out is an option. You know what you have to do.

You change into comfortable yet practical clothes, lacing up a pair of sneakers. You tie a jacket around your waist in case you, or anyone you encounter, gets cold.

Taehyung lent you his sweater, hopefully you’ll get to return the favor.

Digging Jimin’s old leather messenger bag from the back of the closet, you start to go around the house collecting supplies. A flashlight and extra batteries, lighter, pocketknife, gardening shears, a roll of duct tape, water bottle, a few apples and granola bars.

You pick the sharpest knife out of the kitchen drawer, sheath it inside the plastic cover, and stash it with the rest of your provisions.

Jimin’s glasses are stowed in the bag’s inside pocket. He’s going to need them if—when you find him.

The cat follows as you pace from room to room, hovering at your side as you finally make your way back to the little door.

There’s a thick, stifling moment of hesitation. Your heart is beating fast again, dread sinking it’s ugly teeth into your neck.

You throw a sideways glance at your companion. He looks up at you, nods towards the door, then moves his petite shoulders in what could be interpreted as a shrug.

He’s not coming back on his own, the gesture seems to say.

And he’s right, infuriatingly right. So with one last unsteady sigh, you grasp the cold black key and twist.

The door swings open by itself. A hot, musty-smelling wind brushes across your face, heavy and damp like someone’s breath.

It’s too dark to see anything, so you grab the flashlight from your bag and switch it on. Cobwebs cling to the tunnel walls, dust particles floating in the flashlight’s yellow beam. There’s an oh so enticing spec of light up ahead. Come back, it practically whispers in your ear, come back to me.

You grab the key from the lock, shove it safely inside your bag, and crawl forward. The ground is soft and startlingly warm against your fingers.

To your surprise, the cat follows you here too, albeit begrudgingly. His nose twitches in obvious discomfort, ears pressed flat.

“You don’t have to come with me,” you say, not really expecting a response. But, to your surprise again, he replies in that same deep voice:

“You need all the help you can get.”

Despite the situation, you let out a chuckle.

“You���re talking again,” you notice, trying to fill the uncomfortable silence.

“How very observant of you.”

A few quiet seconds. The tunnel seems a lot longer than it was before, more suffocating.

“You know, you’re walking right into his trap,” the cat says, sounding slightly disinterested.

“I know what I’m doing.”

He doesn’t look convinced.

The air stirs impatiently around you, sucking you in as the light at the end of the passageway shines brighter and brighter.

“I can’t just leave him there,” you say to no one in particular.

The cat seems to understand, bowing his head in what looks like pity.

“Make it a game, then,” he says. “Believe it or not, he wants your respect. Give him a chance to earn it.”

You consider it for a moment. A game, a chance to even the score.

“Hmm. That could work.”

“No need to thank me,” the cat remarks with a proud quirk of his head. “But he won’t play fair, remember that. Even if you win, he won’t let you go so easy.”

His words send a shiver down the back of your neck, the weight of the situation finally setting in.

It’s then that you finally reach the end of the tunnel.

The parallel living room looks perfectly inviting, nothing at all like the last time you saw it. Instead of pulsing green walls and insects clinging to every solid surface, warm tones and softly glowing lamps decorate the space. Everything is plush and homey, from the comfortable furniture to the roaring flames burning in the fireplace.

Light seeps in through the kitchen door, along with the heavenly scent of cooking food. A sweet, male voice is singing quietly.

You look down to find that the cat has vanished. Guess I’m on my own then. Shoving the flashlight back in your bag, you square your shoulders and walk right into the belly of the beast.

The table in the center of the room is so loaded with food there’s barely any room left. Tendrils of steam rise from a tower of stacked pancakes; the eggs are cooked just how you like them, presented next to a platter of already-buttered, perfectly golden toast. You can hear the gurgling of the coffee pot.

Your throat constricts when you spot him.

The Other Jimin stands at the stove, spatula in one hand, leaning over a pan of sizzling bacon. His back is to you, and he doesn’t acknowledge your presence until you step onto the kitchen tiles.

“Oh, good morning sweetheart,” he says as if you’ve startled him. “Breakfast's almost done. Have a seat, won’t you?”

He’s too focused on the crackling pan to face you, merely gesturing towards the two empty chairs at the table.

You don’t move a muscle. Feet rooted to the floor, you just watch as he transfers the bacon to a plate. He unties the apron from around his waist, runs a hand through his hair, and turns around.

Your stomach flips, but it’s not out of disgust.

His tan skin is dewy and smooth, a healthy blush blooming across his cheeks. Your eyes drink in his velvet-soft lips, his sharp-cut jaw and the way his silken black locks fall over his forehead. He’s dressed in a t-shirt and star-patterned cardigan, tapering down to the tightest pair of black skinny jeans you’ve ever seen. They cling sinfully to his thighs and ridiculously thin waist.

He’s gorgeous and he fucking knows it, judging by the smirk on his plump, rose-pink mouth.

“Come on, let’s eat. I’m starving,” he says, moving to sit at the table.

You make no effort to join him.

He stares you down with those dark bottomless eyes, letting out an amused chuckle after a few seconds of silence.

“Stubborn,” he mutters under his breath, like he’s dealing with a petulant child. He scoots his chair back, approaching with a few strides of his long legs, and pushes you gently but firmly into the seat opposite to him.

Your stomach growls. Loudly. It’s hard to remember the last time you ate something, but you’re not about to give in to his temptations so quickly.

Jimin busies himself preparing a cup of coffee. He sets it down in front of you like an offering, loading your plate with a little bit of everything from the table.

Even though he said he was starving, he makes no attempt to eat anything, just sits there watching you.

You realize with an unpleasant sinking feeling that it’s not food he’s hungry for. He’s hungry for your reaction, your praise, your validation.

With this little detail in mind, you reach into your bag and grab one of the apples, biting into it with fake enthusiasm.

The corner of his eye twitches.

“Please don’t be difficult,” Jimin says, fingertips drumming against the tabletop.

“I want Jimin back. The real one,” you say with a stronger voice than you were anticipating.

He narrows his eyes, perfectly sculpted brows furrowing.

“Come on now, babe. It won’t do you any good getting such silly ideas.” His tone is chastising. Impatient.

But you’re determined to shatter the illusion he so desperately clings to.

“I. Want. Him. Back.”

The muscles in his jaw clench impossibly tight. His already-piercing gaze darkens.

“You know, I have half a mind to teach you a lesson after the stunt you pulled,” he grits out from between his teeth. “After you abandoned me and left us all to starve.”

You dig your fingernails into the flesh of the apple, skin sticky with juice, trying to suppress the shiver that threatens to give away just how terrified you are.

He must be able to tell, because a smug expression flits across his features.

“But no matter, I forgive you, baby. Love the sinner, hate the sin, as they say. I’m tired of giving punishments anyway.”

This time, you can’t hide the way your body trembles in fear.

“What did you do to them?”

Jimin smiles, teeth bared and eyes crinkling. He’s loving this. Having you here, so scared and helpless, clinging to his every word. He could say whatever he wanted, do whatever he wanted to you and there would be almost nothing you could do about it.

“They’re intact, don’t worry. I didn’t have to do much, they got their fair share of pain from just watching you leave them.”

You continue to munch on the apple, trying to distract yourself from his words and their poisonous influence.

“Kookie cried for hours. Poor kid, wouldn’t stop until I forced him.”

"What—” you start to say, choking halfway through the word. Never mind, you don’t want to know.

“And Tae was so disappointed. He was convinced that you’d stay for him, or at least try to take him with you.”

The Other Jimin sighs dramatically.

You know he’s lying, trying to manipulate you into feeling guilty for running away. You want to stay unaffected, but the mental image of Jungkook crying his eyes out, of the criss-crossing stitches over Taehyung’s chest...it gets to you a little bit.

Make it a game. The cat’s voice echoes in your head. Believe it or not, he wants your respect. Give him a chance to earn it.

This is your only shot. You have to get it just right.

“I don't love you.”

He bristles, hands clenching.

“Not if you force it,” you blurt out. “Love is meaningless if you force it. Wouldn’t you be happier if I loved you willingly?”

Despite his efforts to appear unfazed, there’s something undeniably eager dancing in the black of his eyes.

“Are you offering something?” he asks, tilting his head to the side like a curious puppy.

“A game, a test of willpower. The winner gets my freedom.”

The Other Jimin raises an eyebrow.

“You’ll never try to run again?”

Your throat has gone so tight that speech seems impossible, so you simply nod your head in response.

“You’ll stay here forever?”

Nausea curls in the pit of your stomach, but you manage another nod.

“Hmm,” he mutters, considering it. “And what happens if you win?”

If anything, he sounds amused, like the idea of you winning this game makes him want to laugh.

“Then you let us all go. Me, Jimin, Taehyung. And you promise to never hurt Jungkook again.”

Leaning back in his chair, the Other Jimin juts his lips into a pout.

“You’re forgetting one important thing, Y/N. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

Fuck. You were really hoping he’d let that one little detail slide.

“Even if you lose, what’s to stop you from trying to leave me again?”

Shit shit shit. You can’t let him sew the buttons, you just can’t. Come on, think of something.

“I’m asking for a bit of mercy here,” you say, letting your voice drip with vulnerability and delicious weakness, praying that he takes the bait. “You already have an advantage.”

Another wicked smile spreads across his face.

“Alright, my love,” he purrs, slow and disgustingly sweet. “I can be lenient just this once, for you.”

You unclench your jaw.

“You’re right about one thing, though,” he says as he rises to a stand and approaches you with a few strides of his long legs. Hovering behind your chair, he slides his hands up to your shoulders and leans in uncomfortably close.

“I’d much rather win you fair and square.”

The heat of his breath tickles your ear. You fight the urge to flinch away.

“When you lose, when you finally give in, you’ll beg me to sew those buttons.”

One of his hands snakes down to rest over your sternum.

“After you learn to love me, you’ll want nothing more than to be connected to me in every way possible.”

You can only form one coherent thought in your head: 

Fuck.

He seems reluctant as he pulls away, fingertips lingering a little too long. The fog in your brain clears a bit when he’s a safe distance away.

“I’ll give you three challenges. If you can get through all of them without breaking, I’ll let you all go,” he drawls almost lazily, walking around you in slow circles.

Without breaking? Your heart rate jumps a little at that.

“You’ll need to bring me something from each challenge, so I know you completed it.”

“How am I supposed to—” you begin, but he interrupts by reaching into his pocket and tossing something at you. Catching it by some miracle, you see that it’s a triangular stone with a hole in the middle, dark green like it was cut from jade.

“Look through the stone. You’re smart, you’ll figure it out,” he says with a grin. You can’t tell if the gesture is fond or condescending.

“Oh, and there will be a time limit, of course. You have until the moon is new.”

A scoff escapes your lips.

“Anything else?”

He only smiles again, eyes crinkling.

"One more thing.”

He closes the distance between you once more with a mischievous grin. Some of the juice leftover from the apple still lingers on the corner of your mouth, and he reaches towards you to swipe it away with his thumb.

Your stomach gives a little flip when he pops the digit in his mouth. And, judging from the dark look in his piercing, slitted eyes, he knows exactly what it does to you.

All this food on the table, and the only thing to pass his lips is the sweetness that has touched your own.

“I think that’s everything,” Jimin says nonchalantly, audibly sucking the last of it from his fingers.

“Do we have a deal?”

He extends his ringed hand with an expression that is downright ravenous. It’s unfair how attractive he is, with the faint yet sultry eyeshadow on his lids, the fluid lines of his neck and collarbone peeking out from his shirt.

You can’t help but agree with the cat’s words. You know, you’re walking right into his trap. But what other choice do you have? Jimin and Taehyung are here somewhere, and you’re the only one that can do anything to save them.

You shake his hand, and just like that, your deal with the devil is sealed.

“Good luck, sweetheart. I’ll be watching.”

The Other Jimin sidesteps you, skirting out of your field of vision, and when you turn around to keep him in your sights, you find that the room is empty. Except the feeling of eyes on your skin hasn’t disappeared with him.

Too long, you think bitterly. It’s been quiet for too long.

You’ve practically torn this house apart, kicked open every door, upturned every piece of furniture, scrutinized every nook and cranny for even the slightest trace of Jimin or Tae. And in that time, nothing’s jumped out at you, nothing even resembling a “challenge” has turned up.

The worst part is that you’re not sure if he’s toying with you or setting the stage for something truly horrifying.

The mirror at the end of the hall mocks you. It stays solid under your fingertips, leaving you glaring at a reflection you barely recognize. You have a feeling that the cold, dark room behind the glass is probably empty, anyway.

“You really are hopeless.” A voice, slick as oil, calls from behind you.

Whipping around, you’re met with the shape of the cat silhouetted in the kitchen doorway. There’s a moment of relief, then irritation as his words set in.

“It’s a big house, alright?” You bite back in frustration.

The cat rolls his eyes and musters a sigh.

“You won’t find anything in the house, stupid girl. Look at how much time you’ve already wasted,” he says, pointing his chin towards the window.

A sliver of darkness crawls across the full moon, covering nearly a quarter of its pale glow.

Shit. He wasn’t kidding about that time limit.

“I guess I’ll have to hold your hand through this one too,” the cat grumbles, sauntering towards the front door without checking to see if you’ll follow.

Of course, you hurry to catch up. His self-assured movements make you nervous, though. The slanted, almost bored look in those feline eyes, the slow sway of his tail. Why does it seem like he’s done this all before?

The cat leads you to the front yard, where the air prickles and hangs heavy with uncharacteristic humidity. His paws are silent on the dirt as he rounds the corner and stops at the basement stairs.

The entrance to the couple’s apartment is outlined in flashing marquee lights. You can hear the faint sound of music coming through the door.

“Your welcome,” the cat says, sounding very impressed with himself.

“Glad you don’t let it go to your head.” You don’t bother masking your annoyance this time.

He watches you venture down the stairs, tail twitching, and adds in a cool voice:

“Don’t forget to look through the stone.”

When you glance back over your shoulder, the cat is gone. A tiny bit relieved, but mostly terrified, you push open the door and step into the waiting darkness.

This definitely isn’t the grand theater you remember. The once vibrant, plush velvet curtain is faded and moth-eaten, its gold trim reduced to mere threads. Cobwebs and patches of damp mold cling to the rows of seats. The dimly glowing house lights reveal just how much dust floats in the air, you’re surprised you aren’t choking on it.

Something rustles from above. You look up at the arched ceiling just in time to see a dark shape crawl back into the shadows. Fishing your flashlight out of your bag, you flick it on and direct the beam.

They skitter to avoid the light. Dozens, hundreds of shiny black creatures with round bulbous bodies and too many long spindly legs to count. Each about the size of an overweight house cat, hanging upside down like bats.

You let out a startled yelp and point the flashlight back down at the ground.

Got it. Don’t look at the ceiling.

You don’t even have time to catch your breath before a blinding spotlight cuts through the dark room. The illuminated stage is occupied only by a gramophone seeping with crackling music, and two figures hunched back-to-back on the floor.

With one hand holding the flashlight and the other hovering over your bag, ready to grab a weapon, you begin your trek down the aisle.

The stench of rotting wood seems to thicken with each step towards the stage. Your footsteps are muffled by the filthy carpet, but you can still hear the creatures above your head shifting restlessly.

You’re only a few feet away from the stage when the two figures snap their necks to look at you.

Yoongi and Hoseok. They’re dressed in the same pink and green ensemble from the other night, but the colors seem...duller. Now that you look closer, you can see that they’re both covered in a thin layer of dust.

“Ahhh, our guest has finally arrived.” 

Hoseok’s voice comes out garbled and distorted. If you hadn’t seen him open his mouth, you wouldn’t have believed it came from him at all.

“What took you so long, Y/N? We’ve been waiting for you.”

It’s Yoongi’s voice this time, but deeper and more croaky, like the inside of his throat has rusted.

Their bodies jolt into action, spines bending unnaturally backwards as they rise to a stand without the help of their arms. They seem unfazed by the sound of their joints cracking.

You take an involuntary step backwards, and their vacant stare follows you.

“We’re so glad you could join us tonight.” Hoseok's smile is a little too wide.

“Yes, we’ve been preparing for your visit. So that you’ll never think to leave us ever again,” Yoongi adds with a nonchalance that doesn’t match his words.

They’re still attempting to be theatrical despite their derelict surroundings. Even after the auditorium, and the fantasy along with it, has decayed beyond recognition.

When you don’t offer any kind of response, their expressions visibly wilt. They look at each other for a split second, and you can’t quite pin down what they’re feeling in that exact moment. Discouraged? Irritated? Anxious?

It dawns on you the next time they glance your way.

The almost frantic look in their eyes, the way their bodies fidget and tremble. They’re not just dejected, they’re scared.

“Won’t you have a seat and enjoy the show?”

The show. You’re reminded of the challenge. This is all meant to distract you from the game.

You reach into your bag and shuffle around until you find what you’re looking for. The smooth jade is warm to the touch.

The world is a flat black and white when you look through the stone, except for two flickering sparks of color. Their wedding bands, you realize. The ring on Yoongi’s left hand glows powdery pink, while Hoseok’s is a bright, taffy green.

The air seems to shift. Something in their black eyes sharpens with your realization.

The creatures clinging to the ceiling start to shuffle. Still keeping to the patches of darkness, their twitching legs scrape and tap against the wood.

“Don’t you want to stay with us?”

“We’re just trying to make you happy.”

At this point, you can’t tell who’s saying what. All you can focus on is the sound of the creature’s footfalls. Out of the corner of your eye, you see a mass of black shapes inching down the walls.

They’re coming towards you.

“You’d never be unhappy again. We’d make sure of it.”

“You’d never be uncomfortable, never feel unsatisfied ever again. We’d always take care of you.”

Yoongi and Hoseok walk slowly across the stage, circling each other. But their movements are jerky and awkward, like they aren’t in full control of their limbs.

“You could help us, Y/N. Won’t you help us?”

The sharp tapping suddenly turns muffled, and although the sound is less unpleasant, a chill runs down the back of your neck. That means the creatures have reached the carpeted floor.

I need to get those rings.

It can’t be just that easy, though. There must be some sort of riddle or clever solution.

“We’re so lonely, Y/N. You’d really leave us all alone to starve? We’ll all die without you.”

You've heard those same words so many times, but somehow they hurt more coming from different voices.

Something thin and slightly sticky brushes against your leg. Flinching away, you realize that the creatures have gotten close enough to surround you.

“Shit shit shit.” You sweep the flashlight beam back and forth, keeping them at bay.

The only other source of illumination in the room is the bright white pool from the single spotlight. You hoist yourself onto the stage just as another gangly leg snags on the material of your pants.

Yoongi and Hoseok lurch forward as you dig in your bag for a weapon. They reach out to—you’re not sure. To attack? To subdue? It doesn’t matter, because your fingers have already found the handle of the knife.

Fight overpowers flight, and you swing without a second thought.

There’s no cry of pain, no gasp for air. Hoseok doesn’t even blink when the blade slices across his forearm.

You never thought the absence of blood would bother you so much.

It doesn’t deter them in the slightest. They continue their advances, pulling, grabbing, dragging you despite the frenzied slashing of your knife. Bodies covered in deep, ugly gashes, yet not a drop of blood.

How can you win this fight? How are you supposed to beat this impossible challenge?

There must be something you’re missing, some sort of clue, the last piece of the puzzle that will make it all connect.

Scrambling back and swinging your weapon with everything you’ve got, they push you to the edge of the stage where the creatures are waiting ever so patiently.

“We don’t want to hurt you.” Yoongi’s voice sags with guilt.

“But you know we have to do this,” Hoseok finishes, reaching to grab your ankle.

Just as you’re kicking away their outstretched arms, your attention catches on the shadows cast by the spotlight. Three silhouettes, one crumpled and small, two standing tall. The silhouette on the ground, your silhouette, has nothing unusual about it. Yoongi’s and Hoseok’s silhouettes, though, don’t match up with their owners.

Several long, thin lines rise from the tops of their heads to the rafters above. They move when they move, one connected to each of their limbs.

Two seconds, three seconds, then it clicks.

You don’t second-guess your revelation or dwell on the cruel joke. In the time it takes Hoseok to pin down your flailing legs, the knife has been switched out with the shears.

All it takes is one sweep of your arm, this time aimed just above his head, to take Hoseok down. You feel a tension against the shears, something invisible but still tangible.

Snip.

Hoseok falls like a sack of potatoes. Nothing but dead weight, his body hits the wood with a heavy thump. 

You expected Yoongi to be angry, to attack you with renewed ferocity, but the only emotion to flash across his face is fear. A pained cry that sounds like Hoseok’s name is torn from his chest. He reaches for the fallen man without a second glance your way.

That’s when you slice at the air above his head and send him tumbling to the ground as well.

The theater is silent. The music from the gramophone screeches to a halt, the creatures retreat from the edge of the stage and settle back against the walls. Eventually, the thrumming of your heartbeat quiets too.

Yoongi and Hoseok are motionless on the floor. At first, you think they’re unconscious, then you’re met with the sound of sniffling.

“Hobi? Hobi!” Yoongi calls desperately.

“I’m here, Yoon,” Hoseok responds, trying to keep his voice steady, but you can hear the sobs bubbling in his throat.

They’re facing away from each other, bent uncomfortably on their sides. They can’t even move to wipe the tears that drip down their noses.

The rings, get the rings.

You drop to your knees by Hoseok’s body and slip it off his finger.

“Please...please don’t, Y/N,” he begs, but he’s helpless to stop you.

Yoongi is next. Doing your best to ignore his soft weeping, you grab the ring and let it disappear inside your bag.

“Don’t leave us like this, please! He’ll hurt us, he’ll separate us.”

As much as you might wish it, Yoongi’s pleas don’t fall on deaf ears.

Your feet freeze on the edge of the stage. Maybe it’s a mistake, but you take one last pitying glance back over your shoulder.

Poor things, you can’t help thinking. Puppets with their strings cut, blindly following orders. Beings motivated by fear.

Not you, though. You won’t be motivated by fear.

Yoongi is hyperventilating, now. Hoseok’s voice is shaky as he tries to talk him through it with sugary-sweet, comforting words that Yoongi clings to.

The sight makes your heart ache a little bit, but you can’t afford to stay any longer. The spotlight dims with each step down the aisle, so does the sound of their sobs.

You tell yourself that you have to keep going. You have to do this, for Jimin and Tae. If you can win this challenge then you can win the next two.

You can keep going. You can beat him.

Out of all the things you expected to see waiting for you at the top of the basement stairs, the cat in his human form is certainly not one of them.

Namjoon is wearing a path in the dirt, pacing back and forth with his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his pressed slacks. His appearance is as polished as you would expect, but even with his neatly groomed hair and crisp black clothes, you’ve never seen him look so disheveled.

His head whips around when your foot meets the first step.

“What took you so long!” Namjoon snaps. There’s panic laced in his normally smooth voice.

That sends another chill through your body. It means something’s finally cracked his aloof demeanor. It means you’re in trouble.

Apparently, you’re not moving fast enough, because Namjoon rolls his eyes and huffs out a breath.

“You’re beginning to worry me, you know.”

The clearly exasperated man grabs your arm and drags you up the final steps. He starts to pull you through the garden, towards the line of trees that surround the property.

“Why are you worried? I completed the challenge, didn’t I?” You struggle to match the strides of his long legs.

“Oh, don’t be naive. This isn’t about the challenges, this is about distracting you. Look at the moon!”

You can’t, too afraid of what you’ll find. If Namjoon’s voice is any indication, it can’t be good.

“He wants you to run out of time, he wants you to feel guilty,” Namjoon says, dragging you along with renewed urgency. The garden seems darker than it was before. You realize with a swell of nausea that it’s because the moon is no longer full. Half of its pale glow has been swallowed by darkness. Half of your time, gone.

“You’re getting emotional.” He digs the stone out of your bag and shoves it in your hands.

“Don’t. That’s exactly how he wants you.”

With that, he shoves you to where the garden’s manicured lawn meets the forest’s dirt floor.

Of course, you scoff to yourself. Of fucking course the next challenge is in the deep dark woods.

You dig out your flashlight and shine it on the overgrown path, through the twisted, reaching branches ready to snag on your clothing. After one more impatient push from Namjoon, your feet are moving and your gaze is cutting through the tangle of vines and shadowy trees.

These woods are dense, so dense that the reach of your flashlight beam only stretches a few feet in front of you. All you can see is gnarled roots and the occasional spiderweb, the dew drops on its delicate strings illuminated by a few wispy curtains of moonlight.

You reach for the stone and hold it up to your eye. It’s much warmer than you remember, a dull heat thrumming against your fingers. You can’t see much, just darkness and the texture of foliage.

Something glints up ahead. A speck of light, a candle flame trembling in the gentle, chilly wind. Pale yellow, it flickers like a dying firefly.

Dead leaves crunch under your feet as you approach the only beacon of light to guide you. With this newfound target, it’s easy to ignore the sound of rustling and scattered footsteps that come from inside the woods.

You follow it deeper and deeper into the forest’s beating heart, fighting the urge to hesitate or even turn back altogether. The image of Taehyung’s tear-stained cheeks and stitched-up chest, of Jimin’s eye smile behind his crooked glasses, reminds you that you can’t.

You have to see that smile again. Even if it’s just once.

The light is much closer now, though you still can’t see its source. You swear you can hear several sets of footsteps instead of just one, and it’s unclear if they are faraway or right next to you.

Your foot knocks into a dark shape, a fallen branch or stray rock. You don’t fall, regaining your balance just before your palms hit the dirt. The flashlight beam catches something.

The bottom of a shoe, the bottom of a leather boot.

Breath shaky in your ears, you sweep the beam higher. Ripped black jeans. Higher. A torso engulfed by an oversized coat. Higher. Matted black hair, silver earrings.

“Jungkook.”

His body is propped up against a moss-eaten tree trunk, head lolled to the side at an uncomfortable angle. Several days worth of fallen leaves are scattered over his clothes.

You drop to your knees and grab his arms. Shaking his shoulders doesn’t make him stir, neither does calling out his name. He’s still alive, according to the weak rise and fall of his chest, even if his skin has lost all traces of it’s youthful glow.

The stitches over his lips has been cut, letting his jaw go slack. When you lean closer, a green six-legged insect skitters out of his open mouth.

Grabbing one of your water bottles, you tip some of its contents past his cracked lips, then over the top of his head to try to wake him. It drips down the curtain of hair covering his eyes, down the slope of his nose, but Jungkook doesn’t so much as twitch.

“Come on, kid,” you mutter, gently slapping his cold cheek.

No movement. Tilting the bottle until water overflows down the sides of his mouth, he finally jerks awake, sputtering and coughing.

A groan rumbles from his throat.

“Master?” It comes out as a dry rasp.

“Jungkook, it’s me. It’s Y/N,” you say, soothing your hands up and down his arms in an attempt to generate some heat.

“No...no, no,” he mumbles, sighing your name like it hurts his lungs.

He won’t look at you. Head hanging low, bangs covering his face, his gaze fixed to the ground.

With a thick feeling welling up in your throat, you grip his chin and force him to look up.

Again, painfully again, you make out the shape of criss-crossing lines, dried blood and scabbed-over puncture marks.

This time they’re over his eyelids.

The sparse moonlight falls on the dark lashes now permanently stuck fanning against his cheek.

He wouldn’t stop crying until I forced him.

“Shit,” you gasp, tearing your hand away like you’re the one who’s been tortured, but Jungkook reaches for it again the second it leaves him.

He mutters something unintelligible, so you lean in to catch it better.

“Hungry, please.”

Hungry, hungry, he’s hungry. How long has he been out here?

You reach for a granola bar, crumbling off a piece and pressing it to his mouth. Tentatively, he parts his lips and lets you feed him. He chews once, twice, then spits it out with a gag.

“No, no, hungry. I’m hungry, please.”

Your brows furrow in confusion.

“‘M hungry,” he begs, pulling you closer by the wrist.

It’s only then that you remember what you’re here for. Shuffling a little closer to his huddled form, since he seemed to tense if you strayed too far, you bring the stone up to your eye with the hand that isn’t trapped in his iron grip.

The source of the yellow light is his charm bracelet. It glows more vibrant now that he’s conscious. The stone, too, burns hot in your palm.

“Jungkook, listen to me,” you begin, as if he could do anything else but listen with his eyes sewn shut.

“I need this.” Your fingers brush against the bracelet’s chain.

A jolt pulses through his body, stiffening immediately.

“What?” he blurts out. “Why?”

If he could look at you, you have no doubt that it’d be with those begging, watery eyes.

“You know why, Jungkook,” you reply solemnly.

His breath is quickening, limbs restlessly twitching. The hand around your wrist tightens.

“You’ll leave again,” he mutters, lip trembling. You wonder if he’s aware, or maybe it’s intentional, of the way your chest seizes with guilt.

“I need this to help you!” Slowly, you reach for the bracelet. “I’m trying to help you.”

He seems to anticipate it even without his sight. Ripping his hand away, he scrambles back until his back is pressed against the tree trunk.

“You need it?” His voice sags. “You already have everything you need. It’s all right here!”

Your face falls. He’s much too far gone to reason with. This isn’t the same boy that helped you escape. This is Other Jimin’s poison, this is fear and desperation and blind survival instinct.

The worst part is that you can’t decide if you resent him or feel sorry for him.

“You don’t want to help, you want to leave!” he snaps, eyebrows creasing like he would glare if it was possible.

“All you do is try to leave! You want us to all starve!”

You grit your teeth. Unfortunately, you’re going to have to do this the hard way.

“I’m sorry, Jungkook.”

As quick as you can, you grab his hand and slip the bracelet off his wrist.

An awful betrayed sound leaves his throat, and for a moment he’s shocked still, still reeling from the realization that you’d leave them all again. The next second, he’s lurched into action.

He reaches for you with both hands as you move to stow your prize in your bag. Catching you by the shoulders, he tries to pull you down to the ground.

You’re knocked down to your elbows. Curling up on your side, you deflect his advances for a brief second, which you use to stash the bracelet in your bag along with a handful of dirt.

There’s that sound again. The sound of footsteps.

You feel Jungkook frantically grabbing at your limbs, anything he can reach. Without thinking, you deliver a powerful kick behind you.

An audible crunch, then a groan and broken sob. Foolishly, you sneak a glance over your shoulder.

Black fluid flows from the hand cupped around his nose, muffling his pained whimpers.

Even though your throat feels clogged, you use the moment of precious distraction to haul yourself to your feet. You manage to get a few feeble steps in before a hand wraps around your ankle and you’re yanked back down to the ground.

Both hands gripping your ankles now, Jungkook uses all the strength he can muster to drag you backwards.

You feel the sharp bite of scattered rocks and fallen branches against your body, mud caked under your fingernails as you scramble to crawl away.

There are faces peeking out of the woods.

Pale, misshapen faces with too-long necks and dull, marble-like eyes. Some have gaunt frames with sinewy limbs, some have bloated bodies that resemble rising bread dough. They look as if they’ve been molded from lumpy clay or melted wax.

It’s hard to tell if Jungkook is crying or simply heaving with the effort of holding onto you. Whichever it is, you know that he’s not letting you get away without dragging it out first. And with one look at the moon overhead, you know you don’t have time for a dragged out escape.

So you do something he doesn’t expect. You turn and attack.

It’s clear from the way he gasps and flails that his only concern was keeping you from running away, and it seems he burned most of his energy doing just that. Blind, starving, broken, his attempts to defend himself are pathetically weak.

He’s so taken aback, so terribly dismayed by your assault. It only makes you feel that much more guilty at the fact that he never expected you to go on the offensive.

Decisive and deliberate, the grotesque forest creatures react to the rustling. Jerking towards you, they start to make their way through the brush. They seem to be drawn towards sound, much like how the creatures in the theater were repelled by light.

You wonder how long you have until they reach you. Then, a horrible idea flickers in your head. A cruel, effective idea.

There’s a few moments of struggling before you manage to pin Jungkook down and wrestle his arms behind his back. Fumbling for the roll of duct tape in your bag, you hear the slow approach of the deformed creatures through the overgrown thickets. 

You’ve got both legs straddled on either side of his body, using your weight to keep him still. Or rather, as still as possible.

He’s struggling considerably, using every bit of strength left in his body to fight you off.

It’s no use, though. In just a handful of seconds, you’ve got his wrists bound. Then his ankles after switching your body around to face his legs.

There’s no fight left in him now, only sobbing and begging.

You look back to the way you came. The bracelet is lightweight, but your bag feels heavy enough to drag on the ground.

Don’t look back. Don’t. It’s Namjoon’s voice.

The creature’s footsteps are hurried, then suddenly cease. The same time that Jungkook’s sobs turn to screams.

You’re getting emotional.

Rustling, the sound of boots frantically kicking. Pained grunts and hitches of breath.

Don’t. That’s exactly how he wants you.

With the creatures distracted, you make your escape.

Namjoon is not waiting for you when you emerge from the woods. The pristine lawn is empty, not even an insect can be found. There are just the vines slowly slithering over the garden wall, the swollen flower buds pulsing like beating hearts, looking like they’re ready to burst with pus.

When your eyes shift over your surroundings, a distant light catches your attention.

It’s the door to the attic apartment. Swung wide, a deep orange glow emits from the opening, shedding light onto the metal staircase below. The light seems to cast more shadows than actual illumination.

You don’t have to hunt for this challenge, and you have a feeling that that’s not a good thing. It's practically beckoning you.

You can’t help but approach it hesitantly. A quick look at the moon proves to be a good motivator. A waning crescent.

You’re almost out of time.

Taking the stairs two at a time now, you reach the landing out of breath. Peering into the room, all you can see is the miniature circus tent. It glows bright red and yellow, while the rest of the room is shrouded in complete darkness.

You take the first tentative step forward, then the next, then the next, until your next step is met with a stomach-churning squeal and a squirming mass against your shoe.

Yanking your foot back, you realize with the sounds of skittering little paws that you stepped on a rat’s tail.

“Shit fucking shit fuck,” you blurt out almost involuntarily.

Small, scattered footsteps echo around the room.

“Rats. Lovely,” you mutter, mentally brushing yourself off before trekking deeper.

You pause at the shrunken entrance of the tent. Then the nauseating realization hits you. This is the last challenge. It all comes down to this.

You shove down the sudden wave of fear that wells up inside you.

Only one more to go. You’ve come this far.

You know that pretending to be brave sometimes helps. So, with squared shoulders and a clenched jaw, you bend down and brush past the tent curtains.

Once again, the inside of the tent defies all physics. It’s the size of a real amphitheater, only now it is covered in cobwebs and scraps of fallen, rotting fabric.

A hanging sign across the theater reads Hall of Human Curiosities.

In the center of the arena is a crumpled shape. It twitches every time you move, like it can feel you shift in the air. You can vaguely make out the outline of a coat and top hat.

With each step forward, the shape rises and elongates, growing taller and taller until you’re at its feet as if it’s being pulled taught by an invisible string. Even though it’s too tall to be considered human, you recognize it as Mr. Kim. Top hat draped with spiderwebs, golden tassels frayed, the rich royal blue of his jacket faded and dull.

His mouth is stretched in a wide, teeth-baring smile that his eyes don’t match. You wouldn’t be surprised if it was forced to stay that way with wire or string.

“Finally.”

His voice is so deep and distorted that it almost makes you shiver, sounding more like it’s coming from an animal through an old radio. Despite his too-wide grin, the tone of his voice is devoid of emotion.

“It was cruel of you to keep us waiting for so long.” Mr. Kim says, eerily slow. “You know how hungry we are. I can’t...hold them...much longer.”

You feel frozen under his intense gaze and unflinching smile. Not to mention that he’s several feet taller than you, looming over your form enough to cast a shadow. You have to crane your neck to look at his face.

“I-uh...Whe-Where is it...?” you manage to get out.

He just stands there staring down at you, unblinking.

You start to take a step backward, but he grabs your arm with startling force. His long, thin fingers are big enough to wrap around your whole bicep.

“Come now. We’ve waited long enough,” he snarls, pulling back the curtain to reveal a hallway lined with doors. He roughly drags you along, lifting you by the arm so your toes barely touch the floor. His eyes are fixed on you the entire time, not once glancing ahead to see where he’s going.

He stops by one of the doors and pushes it open, smile impossibly growing.

“Behold, the Two-Headed Monster.”

You really shouldn’t have looked.

The sight alone is enough to make you gag, not even considering the pitiful sounds coming from the unfortunate creature in the center of the room.

Barely even human, more like a sick deviation of humanity gone wrong. A creature with one head of pink hair and one head of white. Crudely stitched together, it’s nearly impossible to discern where one begins and the other ends.

You slap a hand over your mouth. 

Remnants of the sparkling pink and green suits, now patches of fabric, are littered across the floor. Now you can scarcely make out the shape of the two of them.

They’re a mass of flesh now. Some body parts are stretched and engorged, with others severed and reattached somewhere else. Stripped, tormented, ripped apart, and sewn back completely wrong.

They wanted so badly to be together.

You close your eyes and stumble back into the hall, feeling Mr. Kim’s towering shadow behind you.

“Shocked?” he asks blankly.

When you look up at him, hand still over your mouth, there is something darker in his eyes.

“Why should you be? You’re the one who condemned them to this fate.”

His voice is colder, sharper.

Mr. Kim grips your arm again and hauls you further down the long corridor. He stops at the next door down, opening it with his gaze still stuck to you.

“The Human Pin Cushion,” he announces proudly.

You don’t look. At least, not at first. But you can hear Jungkook's screams.

Somehow they're worse than the screams that rang through the woods. Those were panicked and scared, still tinged with the possibility of attracting help.

These are utterly hopeless. Jungkook's tortured cries don't ring with any semblance of hope. Broken sobs rip through his lungs. Sniffling whimpers and hitched breaths, all uttered with the knowledge that no sympathy will follow.

Your face is decidedly turned away, eyes squeezed shut.

Mr. Kim grabs your jaw, pinches hard on your cheeks, and wrenches your head to face the poor boy in the middle of the room.

"Look! Look at what you've done!" he snaps, voice so deep and rumbling that it seems to make your bones vibrate.

Oh god. Oh my fucking god.

It takes a moment to recognize that the figure in front of you is a person. No one's spine is supposed to curve back like that. The joints in the elbows and knees are supposed to bend in the opposite direction.

Jungkook is a crumpled shape, stripped down to his barest form and cruelly contorted to fit the name of the exhibit, his arched torso as the "cushion."

And just as the name suggests, every inch of his flesh is pierced with needles. Small, syringe-sized needles, needles the length of your hand, giant needles big enough to stab through his chest and come out of his back.

Thick, strong needles pin his hands and feet to the floor. They’re plunged deep into his ear canals, twin rivers of blood flowing down his neck. They’re in his eyes and through his tongue.

Then a truly horrible thought enters your mind. With so much bending in the wrong direction, kneecaps shattered and spine broken, along with the lethal stab wounds, he should be dead by now.

But that would be too easy, wouldn’t it?

Jimin doesn’t want them dead. He wants them to suffer. He wants you to watch them suffer.

You can’t think of a worse state to be in. Never dying, only the pain of dying.

It’s too much. You wrench yourself free from Mr. Kim’s grasp and turn away, a sob getting stuck in your throat.

“Had enough yet?” he asks, patronizing.

Slowly, you pivot to face him. Then you spit in his face.

A growl rumbles in his gut as he wipes his cheeks. That infernal smile doesn’t so much as budge as his brows furrow and his eyes zero in on you.

"Fucking bitch," he hisses.

The next moment, he has your hair in his fist, dragging you back into the hallway. You scream and struggle, but all he does is give another cruel yank.

You only break free when you throw your elbow back and hit a particularly soft spot in his abdomen. A shrill, squeaking cry immediately follows, and you feel a chunk of your hair being ripped from your skull as you jerk away from him.

Panting, you stumble backward.

Mr. Kim is clutching his stomach with hunched shoulders, looking like he's ready to lunge at you. Small, restless lumps shift under his clothes.

Something lights up in those sinister eyes, as if he's been given permission after all this time holding back. That fleeting light turns to something darker.

You were right to take a step back when Mr. Kim unbuttoned his jacket, because clinging to his dull, greying flesh is over a dozen oversized rats.

They've chewed most of him down to exposed tissue and sinewy muscle, down to the bone. Elongated, yellowed front teeth gnawing away at him bit by bit.

He doesn't even seem to notice. All he does is stare you down with those sharp eyes and stomach-churning smile. He doesn't even flinch when one of the rats bursts an artery and sends blood spurting from his rib cage.

Mr. Kim's eyes roll to the back of his head.

"Didn't I tell you? We're hungry."

Then the rats turn their red-eyed sights on you.

Falling from Mr. Kim's body, they close the distance with startling speed. They crawl up your legs, jump up onto your torso, skitter up your sleeves and down the back of your shirt.

You scream and flail when they bite into your flesh and make deep gashes with their claws. The sensation of foreign paws all over your body makes shivers creep up your spine.

You can hear Mr. Kim's cackling laughter as you grab each small, wriggling body and toss it to the ground. Just as you're sure the last one is off of you, Mr. Kim opens his jacket more and a fresh surge of rats pours out.

They scurry across the floor, but you resort to frantically stomping to keep them at bay.

There are too many. They keep multiplying out of thin air, their squeals and pattering feet worming into your ears.

You don't realize that you're retreating until your back hits the wall. In a panic, you reach back and yank on the first door handle you find, slipping inside and slamming the door behind you.

There are a few seconds to catch your breath before a fuse fizzles and the popping sound of illuminating light bulbs fills the room.

You whip around, grimacing in the harsh light. By the time your eyes adjust, you can hear the sound of soft breathing.

You don't know if you could even define this space as a room, there are no discernible walls or ceiling. It's just a darkness. A darkness broken only by the presence of several fluorescent lamps and a narrow table.

You hesitate, pressing yourself as close to the door as possible, but you can still hear that quiet breathing. It shakes a little, then steadies itself as if the person it belongs to is trying to calm themselves.

Taking a slow step forward, you see the rise and fall of someone's chest from atop the table. Another step, and you can see the person's legs, then their arms, then the top of their head.

You can see that their limbs are pinned down with thin straps. You can see that their torso is bare. You can see that it's Taehyung.

A stream of muttered expletives fall from your mouth. Lunging forward, you stand over the table that he's sprawled across and yank on the straps.

They're made of hard, strong material, serrated on the side against the skin so the more he struggles, the more it cuts. Each strap is secured by a silver padlock.

"Fuck!" you shout, the sound echoing in the nothingness.

"It's okay," Taehyung says gently, reaching to place two fingers on the back of your hand in comfort.

His wrists are covered in shallow gashes and dried blood.

You finally bring yourself to look at his face. Curly hair matted and sweat-pasted to his forehead. Red, watery eyes that look like they've been crying for hours. Face drained of color, drained of hope.

Yet he still finds it in himself to give you a small, sad smile.

"It's okay, let's just get it over with," he says, looking away.

You furrow your brows in confusion. Taehyung doesn't meet your eyes.

"What?"

He still doesn't look at you, only nods his head to his left.

You have to lean to see the other side of the table over his body. It's lined with gleaming tools, oversized tweezers, odd-looking scissors, saws of all different sizes. Then you look to the left a little more, to the row of scalpels.

It's then that you realize what you're really looking at. Surgical lights, an operating table, medical tools.

"I don't understand," you say as a squirming knot forms in your stomach. It's a bit of a lie. You're beginning to, but it's too horrible to admit.

You glance back at the door you came through. The sign reads LIVE Open-heart Surgery!

Taehyung gulps, eyes going shiny.

"Look through the stone," he says.

Reluctantly, you pull it out of your bag and raise it to your eye. You scan the edges of the "room," finding nothing with your gray-tinted vision.

"Look down," Taehyung encourages.

You don't move, something cold and paralyzing has taken hold of you.

"Y/N, look down."

The urgency in his voice forces you to comply. The surrounding area of his chest is gray, but in the center, right over his heart, are two glowing circles.

The thing you need to complete the last challenge.

The stone clatters to the floor.

"Oh...fuck," you exhale as the strength vanishes from your legs. You brace yourself on the edge of the table, eyes stuck to the spot on Taehyung's chest where the stitches lie.

"Not that. Please not that," you mutter.

Taehyung's tears have escaped his eyes despite his best efforts.

"It's okay, it's okay," he says, though his voice sounds broken.

"It's not okay! That sick bastard!" you scream, slamming a fist down on the surface of the table. Frantically, you grab one of the tools and try to cut through his straps.

"Y/N..." Taehyung sighs.

The material won't even fray, the blade seems to slide off like it's coated in oil. You abandon it and grab the scissors.

"Y/N, please..."

It's the same story, not even a scratch. Tossing it away, you grab the sharpest-looking saw.

"You know that's not how this works," Taehyung says, almost too quiet for you to hear.

"Screw how it works."

The saw's teeth refuse to catch, pressing harder, harder, harder until it slips from your hand completely.

Two sounds ring in your ears, the clang of metal on the floor, and the faraway reverb of laughter.

His laughter.

"You don't have much of a choice," Taehyung whispers.

It's beginning to set in. Another cruel joke to stomach. You'd hoped and prayed for Tae to be free somehow. Obviously not like this.

"Please," Taehyung murmurs. "Please...do it."

By now the tears have pooled enough to blur your vision. Your hands shake with the thought of holding one of those scalpels.

"Can't," you barely manage to get out.

"Yes you can," he continues gently. "Do it for me. Do it for you."

"It would kill you!"

He tries to blink away the water in his own eyes.

"It's okay, I want you to do it."

You turn away from the table in frustration, pacing back and forth.

You can barely begin to wrap your head around how you could manage it. Just cutting into his chest with no anesthesia...

The blood. The smell.

You’d have to saw through his ribs, reach between his lungs. There are no clamps or tools that could be used to prevent hemorrhaging. You have no idea how to avoid major arteries. He’d bleed out in minutes.

You could hardly bear hearing Jungkook’s tortured screams, you don’t know if you could handle Taehyung’s too.

Something cracks underneath you.

You look down and find a fracture along the ground a few feet away.

Taehyung hears it. His eyes widen, breath quickening.

“You have to! Please, Y/N!” he pleads. “You have to get out!”

You hover over the table and try to console him, but he only jerks against his restraints.

Another crack sounds, louder and longer.

“Take it!” he says frantically, nodding to one of the scalpels.

You pick it up because of the panic in his voice, hand trembling.

"You just have to cut the stitches," he rambles on. "You just have to...just..."

His eyes dart back and forth, trying to catch a glimpse of the floor. You barely hear it or care to look, too focused on the spot over Taehyung's chest.

"Come here! Y/N, come here," he orders, and you comply hesitantly.

"Just listen to my voice, okay?"

You don't feel yourself nod, even though you know you told your brain to.

"Okay, good. Now, take the blade and cut the first stitch."

The breath clogs up in your lungs, a distressed wheeze escaping your throat.

"It's okay! It's okay, don't freak out! We'll take it one step at a time."

He brushes your other hand with his fingertips. It makes you look at him and his leveled stare.

"You can do it. Just the first stitch, okay?"

The certainty in his voice guides your hand since your brain has checked out. The blade hovers over the black string.

"Do it," he says sharply, and you bring it down to snip it away.

Taehyung can't hide his flinch.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" you blurt out.

He clenches his teeth and controls his expression.

"It's okay, you're okay. Now the next one."

You stare down at it, limbs frozen.

"Come on, you can do it," he encourages.

You shake your head.

"I don't think I can."

Another crack rings in your ears.

"Just do it, Y/N!" Taehyung shouts, frantic now.

Panicking, you reach over and cut the next stitch. Your hand is shaking so bad that it jerks and slices through the scar tissue, blooming red.

Taehyung exclaims in pain, his whole body arching in a painful grimace.

"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!" you shout like it's being ripped from you.

Taehyung tries so hard to hide it all, tries so hard to look brave.

"It's...okay. I'm fine."

He sniffles and takes a few sharp breaths.

"Keep going," he urges.

Again, you shake your head.

"Come on, Y/N. You can do it," he continues. "Just cut the rest of them, and then...then make the incision."

His breath catches at that, the incision. As if the weight of what he's begging for finally sets in. He's begging you to kill him.

"Just get it over with! Please!"

He's beginning to hyperventilate, arching against the cool surface of the operating table.

“Please, please,” he sniffles, deflating in resignation.

“I can’t let you be trapped here.”

Something about that statement takes the air right from your lungs.

Because it's you who's supposed to be saying that. You were the one who made that promise to him. It's one of the reasons why you came back.

Why you came back.

You came back to free them. Jimin, the real Jimin, Taehyung, Jungkook if you could manage it.

But it's clear now that you can't do both. You can't free yourself and the rest of them. Jungkook would still be stuck here, and Tae...

If there was a pool of nausea at the bottom of your stomach, then a stone of dread just plopped down into it.

Because you just realized. You can't do it.

Somehow you were able to face Yoongi and Hoseok, cut their ties and leave them severed. And somehow you were able to resist Jungkook's desperate pleas, then leave him behind for who knows what to feed on.

But you can't do this. You can't torture Taehyung with your own hands. You can't throw his life away just so you can walk away from the mess you caused.

You were a fucking fool. You were a fool to believe that he would let you walk away so easily, without losing something.

How naive of you. In the end, you didn't prevent any suffering, you just prolonged it. And now he's throwing it back in your face.

If you want to save yourself, the rest of them must suffer.

Part of you wishes that you didn't care about their fate so much. Most of them aren't even human, technically. Just puppets in his game.

But then you think of how Jungkook helped you escape despite his fears, how Hoseok and Yoongi love each other so desperately. Beings with free will.

And Taehyung. Taehyung with his sweater and stuffed Pomeranian. Kept and punished like a pet, just because he wanted to be loved. Now willing to give himself up so you can escape his same fate.

In the end, Namjoon was right. You walked right into his trap.

But you suppose you were right too. After all, when you came crawling back, you said you knew what you were doing. You knew what you were willing to give up.

The cracks crawl towards your feet, intersecting at their jagged edges as they go.

You can't do it, and Taehyung knows it when you let your limp wrist hit the edge of the table.

His eyes follow the motion, widening in horror. When they look back up at you, they're filled with pitying disbelief.

"What are you doing?" he whispers.

You try to hide the way your mouth and chin contorts when you're about to cry.

Wiping your slippery cheeks, you take Taehyung’s hand.

“It’s going to be okay," you begin, pinning his gaze with your own.

His eyes are wider and glossier than ever, and when he tightens his hand around yours you see his lip give a slight quiver.

"It's all going to be okay.”

The floor is a web of intertwining fractures. You swear you feel it moving under your feet, swelling and deflating slowly, breathing in anticipation.

Your throat constricts in a tight swallow.

“I promised that I’d get you out of here, didn’t I?” you whisper with a defeated smile.

Tae’s eyes lock on your face. You think you hear him mutter your name tearfully, pityingly.

The scalpel slips from your other hand.

It hits the floor.

The ground caves in.

You have no idea how far the fall is. Whether it's a few feet or few floors, all you know is that your body stings sharp all over.

Maybe you lost consciousness, because the first thing you register is squeezing your eyes shut, then wrenching them open to see your surroundings better.

You're not surprised to find that it's extremely dim, too dark to see the top of the ceiling, if there is one. Shards of glass litter the ground, a floor of rotten wood slats. Upon looking down at yourself, you find that you're covered in cuts and gashes, in addition to the numerous rat bites.

Peeling wallpaper, once white, now a faded and stained beige, lines the four walls. It bulges and swells in some places, as if the room is bursting at the seams.

One shadowy corner is flooded with piles of old books, scraps of fabric, pieces of broken furniture, all spilling out from a split in the wallpaper like pus from an infected wound.

Another corner is occupied by an ancient-looking grand piano. A few rats linger atop the yellowing keys, occasionally setting off one out-of-tune note.

But more than anything else, the room is filled with strands and strands of thread-like silk. Clinging to the walls, creating webbed hammocks over your head, rising from the piano's lid in a spiraling tower.

In some places, it's sparsely woven, like a net for catching big game. In other places, it's knit thick and tight like a finely crocheted blanket. They reach from wall to wall, from floor to unseen ceiling, all creating a massive web that barely lets you move around the room without touching one of the delicate fibers. A hoard of miscellaneous things are tangled up in it. Scraps of paper, silverware, old keys, knickknacks and trinkets.

Hot breath hits the nape of your neck.

You flinch with a short gasp, whipping around.

There is no one behind you. Nothing but silence and your own shadow.

Then a pair of hands comes to rest on your shoulders. That same wisp of breath fans against the back of your head. Breathing you in, inhaling the scent of you.

"Fucking finally."

Everything freezes, everything but the pound of your heart in your ears. You don't think you could move if you tried, all your limbs feel foreign and solid as lead. Your skin is crawling, hyperaware of the way his fingertips graze down the slope of your neck, across the curve of your collarbones. The way his cold hand wraps softly around your throat.

"Waiting, waiting, waiting, and now...finally."

His hand tightens with the word. The patience of a predator worn thin.

Helpless defeat. You feel like you're shrinking, deflating with the pressure of his hands on you. As if he could mold you like clay, press you down until you're small enough to squirm in the grip of his fist.

"Aww. Scared, love?"

You didn't realize that you were shaking. You hear him chuckle, clearly amused.

"Poor thing," he drawls tauntingly, squishing your cheeks and gently moving your head side to side.

"So kind, so selfless, so naive."

His right hand doesn't leave your face, holding your chin, while his other hand wraps around your waist from behind.

"So lovely. Trying so hard to save everyone. I couldn't have asked for anyone better."

His fingers trace down your spine, earning another shiver.

"And you tried sooo hard, didn't you?"

His patronizing tone makes your eyes burn, threatening tears. But you don't want to give him the satisfaction.

"Tried so hard to resist, to deny me, to be stubborn. Tried to save your precious Taehyung and that fucking parasite you call a boyfriend. And just look at you now."

His hands slip away from your body so he can walk around you in a slow circle.

"A sweet little thing who bit off more than they could chew."

Something in your brain says that you should be angry. But all you are is numb.

"After all the things you've done...Your actions deserve to be punished, really. But there will be time for that."

"All that I've done?" you blurt out, but it comes out as more of a whisper.

You feel his eyes lock onto your form, but you still refuse to look at him.

"You think laying this place to ruin is a simple offense? Don't forget, you tried to kill us."

You glare at the floor, clenching your fists at your side.

He scoffs.

"You still don't get it, do you?"

He crowds your space, nose brushing your cheek, chest pressed up against your side.

"This is my world you're in, and I make the rules here."

Your eyes are shut tight, jaw clenched to avoid saying something that will add to your long list of regrets.

"Look at me," he commands.

The stubborn thing that you are, you only turn your head away a fraction more.

"I said, look at me." His voice has gone deeper, a perfect imitation of Jimin's accent when speaking his native dialect. He puts two fingers on the cheek turned away from him and guides your head to face him.

Reluctantly, you obey.

He's dressed in black. A jacket thrown over broad shoulders, sleeves a sheer black lace to reveal the toned muscle underneath. Unbuttoned, it shows the smooth expanse of his chest, down to the cut V below his thin waist.

Below that, black pants that cling tight to his thick thighs. Silver jewelry glints all about him, dangling from his ears, from his wrist, rings on nearly every finger, a body chain draping tantalizing down his torso.

He moves his fingers to your chin and tilts it up.

His hair is long and wavy, dark curtains hanging over his eyes. Those eyes, hooded and black as pitch, are fixed on you intently. And again, you're stuck staring at the sharp line of his jaw, the dewy skin on his cheeks, those lips, now quirked in a smug grin.

"Just look at me. You know I’m beautiful.”

Clenching your teeth, you hate the fact that he’s right. As much as you wish you were sickened by the sight of him, you can’t deny that his face is the most stunning thing you’ve ever seen.

“Look at what’s yours," he says, letting his fingertips trail down the column of your neck. He pinches the front of your shirt and tugs you closer when you subconsciously try to step away.

"Look at what you fell in love with," he says sharply, gripping the hair at the back of your head and forcing you to meet his eyes.

"Here, I'm a god."

It's that statement that finally triggers your rage.

A god, he says. Yes, a cruel, cunning, manipulative, deceitful, sadistic god. Playing with all of your lives like they're as meaningless as chess pieces. Taunting you just because he can.

Now you're clenching your teeth and digging your nails into the meat of your palms.

"You're not a god. You're a monster."

He stiffens.

"You still don't get it. Nothing you do or say will ever make a difference to me. I don't love you, I never will."

He takes a step back like you've punched him, the confidence draining from his face.

Good. All you have are your words, and you want to use them to make him crumble. You want to gut him.

"You're fucking disgusting. You're sick and twisted and unworthy of love. You're right, I did try to kill you. And I would do it again in a fucking heartbeat. I would leave you here to rot and starve for the rest of your miserable existence and not even bat an eye."

He backs away from you like that will protect him from your venomous words, one hand moving to clench his chest.

"You're ugly inside and out. You make me sick! I hate you! You hear me! I HATE YOU!"

It looks as though his whole face quivers. For a moment, he looks like a little boy playing dress up, pretending to be something pretty only for reality to crush his fantasies.

Cradling his stomach, he hunches over and lets out a guttural groan. His breath hitches, gagging and retching until he vomits up something thick and black.

When he looks up again, dark liquid stains his lips, dripping down his chin. And his eyes, they've gone completely black again. And just like two wells of ink, they leak twin streams of black tears.

The center of his chest, right over his heart, is bleeding.

"Spoiled brat," he spits. Even though his eyes are a bottomless black, you can see the fury inside them.

"You want me to be the bad guy so badly."

His voice is different. Something in it is unhinged, eerily calm.

"All I've done is give you exactly what you asked for. Better house, better companions, better food, better sex..."

That makes a shameful blush flare on your face.

"And yet all you want is to make me the villain. Well fine. I'll be your villain. Maybe then you'll be happy."

He doubles over again, but this time it's from laughter. It builds and builds until he's practically cackling.

"Or maybe you don't want to be happy. You say I'm sadistic, but I think you're just a masochist."

His shoulders are hunched unnaturally, slowly growing under the material of his jacket.

"Is that it, babe? You need me to be the bad guy so you won't feel guilty about being with me?"

Something is falling from his shirtsleeves, from his pant legs. When you look closer you see it's handfuls of beetles and maggots, skittering and wriggling out of his clothes. A dank, musty smell fills the air.

"Need me to snatch you up so it's all out of your control?"

His limbs are stretching, legs turning lanky, too-long arms hanging down in front of him.

"Ahh, that's it, isn't it? My little glutton for punishment."

You're backing away, now. As his skin drains of color and his cheeks become sunken, a dark mass begins to grow from his back. The skin of his right hand peels and rots away, leaving behind a skeletal hand of metal, fingers long and sharp as needles. His other hand looks like the hand of a corpse, with graying skin and knuckles held together with string like a doll. It's wet with that same black liquid, which leaks from the stitches littering his skin and drips down his fingers.

Another look at his torso, and you can see his ribs pressing against his flesh. His stomach and waist are shriveled like a starving man's.

"You know, all I would dream of is stealing you away, taking you for myself, spoiling you, filling you to the brim with my love, stuffing you so full of me that you're bursting. Turns out that's what you wanted all along too."

"No!" you protest, trying to distance yourself from him as much as you can.

"Deny it all you want, sweetheart. But I know you. I know you in ways that you don't even realize."

"You're fucking delusional," you say, not sure whether to laugh or cry at the realization.

He just laughs again.

"I'm the delusional one? Don't forget that it was you who asked for a different life, for a partner that actually wanted you. And trust me, I want you."

A wicked smile appears on his blackened lips.

"I see now that I've been too soft on you, love. If you want me to be a monster, then I better start acting like one."

The mass on his back swells and squirms. It grows and grows until it looks like the abdomen of some giant spider. His eyes close, head leaning back as the veins in his neck strain. A deep, inhuman growl rumbles from his chest.

It's as your back hits the wall that eight black, gangly legs burst from the bulbous mass.

A scream for no one to hear rips through you.

They keep stretching and growing until they nearly reach the walls on either side of him. His body is lifted off the ground and hangs limp, now towering over you.

You're sliding along the wall, desperately trying to get away as he slowly advances.

"Do I disgust you? Am I as ugly as you say? Are you proud of the monster you created?!"

"Get the fuck away from me!"

"All I wanted was to show you how much I love you. Is it really so hard to love me back?! I was everything you wanted, now look at me!"

Those misshapen legs, pointed at the bottom, click on the ground as he edges closer. You stumble over the littered debris, dodging the silk strands. Every step he takes makes your heartbeat quicken. You can feel the sweat running down your back, dripping down your face.

"Look at me! Look at me like you're afraid!"

You don't have to pretend to be afraid of him. Looking into his dark-rimmed eyes sends a wave of nausea through your gut. You're practically choking on your own breath as the panic builds.

Scrambling back, you duck under a curtain of webbed silk, nearly tripping over a broken chair.

"Where do you think you're going? Do you really think you can get away from me now?"

The distance between the two of you is shrinking, enough to make your limbs feel like jelly and your lungs to burn. His eyes never leave you, pinned to your body from under his dark hair.

"Stupid girl. You were mine the moment you came crawling back."

One of his black limbs reaches towards you, snagging on your pants and pulling your legs out from under you. You hit the ground with a grunt, hands scraping against the broken glass. You feel like your breath is getting clogged in your throat, almost hyperventilating.

"Aw, look at that," he drawls. "You're scared now, aren't you? How cute."

A spark of anger still flickers through the fear. You reach into your bag and feel around for the knife. Finally finding it, you unsheathe and point it right at him.

"Oh? Still got some fight left in you?" he quips with a chuckle. "Fine. We can play dirty if you want."

He lunges forward, truly looming over you now, and grabs your ankle. With a yank, he drags you towards him across the floor, the scattered glass and splintery wood cutting into your skin.

You let out a yelp, struggling in his grip.

"Let go of me!"

He clicks his tongue in disappointment.

"I don't think so. You've done enough running."

He keeps dragging you back until you reach the center of the room. Your hand tightens around the blade's handle. With a determined huff, you swing with all the strength you can muster.

He dodges it easily, laughably.

"Come now, babe. Let's not pretend you're getting out of this one. You've already lost the game."

He bats the knife away like it's a feather, sending it flying across the room and out of your reach.

"I'm tired of humoring you. This game of ours is getting old."

You feel the tip of his legs brush against you, resulting in a violent flinch.

"Don't touch me!"

"I'll do whatever the fuck I want to you! You belong to me now!"

You move to shuffle away, but several of his legs pin you down. They're deceptively strong considering how thin they are, keeping you pressed to the floor no matter how hard you thrash and fight.

Jimin leans over your struggling form, looking amused.

"Such a stubborn thing. If you insist that this place is a prison, then I think you need to be restrained a little."

Another flood of nausea ripples through you.

"What?!" you blurt out as he roughly flips you over. He wrenches your arms behind you and you feel a strange material being wrapped around your wrists. It's soft yet oddly strong, and in a matter of moments your arms are tightly secured behind you. He grabs your legs and pins them together.

"Wait! Stop! Stop it!" you plead, desperation growing.

"Oh hush," he scolds. You feel him lean down closer, his mouth almost touching your ear.

"We both know you like being tied up," he murmurs, and you can hear the smirk in his voice.

Your face burns, an unknown feeling blooming in your stomach.

"Fuck you," you try to snap, but it comes out weak and quiet.

His hand grips your face and tilts it up to meet his eyes.

"Watch your mouth before I gag you too," he snaps, setting you with a glare.

Jimin wraps your ankles in the same strange substance, then your knees. Then he bends your legs back and connects your wrists to your ankles so you're trussed up like a prize pig. When you look down at yourself, you realize that you're bound in that same webbed silk.

You continue to squirm and writhe in your bonds, growing in distress until you've exhausted yourself. You're not getting out of this anytime soon.

Helpless and overpowered, you hang your head as the fatigue sets in your limbs.

"Look at that," Jimin says as you're hoisted into the air, hanging from a silken strand like all the other objects in the room.

"Look how calm you are now that you're all wrapped up."

Swinging in the air, you're now at his eye level. But you can't meet his gaze. Your head hangs heavy with failure. The next second, your eyes are burning and welling up, hot tears rolling down your cheeks with no way to hide or wipe them away.

"Aww, poor baby," Jimin coos, patting your cheek. "Cry if you want. Get it out of your system."

And you do. You let the tears flow freely, let the sobs erupt from your chest. Because you've lost. You've lost everything.

Jimin steps closer to you, his face inches from yours, and licks up the wet stream on your cheek.

He lets out a deep sigh, almost a moan.

"Tears of defeat are always sweeter," he whispers.

Bitterness builds up in your throat.

"I hate you," you spit.

"No you don't," Jimin replies calmly. "You think you do, but I know you don't. Just you wait, baby. You're going to love it here."

"No I won't. You're crazy if you think I'll just forget everything you've done."

"You might fight it at first, but not for long," he says as he circles around you, admiring his new plaything.

"You're wrong. I might be trapped here, but I'll never give in."

He meets your glare with a knowing smile.

"Never is almost as long as forever," he says, tilting his head to the side innocently.

"The human spirit can always be broken. With love."

He trails his fingers along your body, along the silk binding you.

"I'll enjoy breaking you. It'll be easy. People aren't meant to fight what feels good."

As if to prove his point, he ghosts his fingers up the back of your neck and massages the growing knot there, and you can't help but melt a little.

"Ah, so many things I want to do to you. And you're going to take all of it."

You try to swallow the lump in your throat as the tears keep falling.

"You'll give in soon enough."

"No," you mutter weakly, sniffling.

"Oh? Not even to save them?"

Muffled cries.

You whip your head up. Against the wall, in the wall, are two writhing bodies. They're pinned underneath the wallpaper, stuck like insects behind glass. You recognize the real Jimin's face even as it twists and strains under the film, as he screams fruitlessly. Next to him, Taehyung's taller form struggles to move his limbs, but to no avail.

Your heart sinks to the pit of your stomach. You shout their names, thrashing with renewed urgency.

"They can't hear you," Jimin says, watching you closely.

Your gaze flickers between the wall and Jimin's smug face, feeling the panic well back up inside you.

"Don't you fucking dare," you hiss with as much venom as possible.

He raises one eyebrow. Taking his sweet time, he slowly saunters over to where the two men are stuck to the wall.

"You should know by now not to tempt me," Jimin replies, raising his metal hand and bringing his sharp fingertips down across the real Jimin's cheek.

Screaming louder now, he squirms desperately as blood stains the wallpaper pressed against his face.

"No! Stop!"

He doesn't respond, digging his needle-like fingers into the real Jimin's side.

"Stop it! Please!"

He cuts cruelly into his chest, into his stomach. Red drips from his metal hands. He keeps looking back at you, almost expectantly.

Fresh tears wet your face as your cries are ignored. The real Jimin can do nothing but writhe as he's cut into again and again.

The next time you meet Jimin's dark, awaiting eyes it clicks. You get it now. It's not an easy pill to swallow, but you get it now.

"Alright! Alright, Jimin! I'm sorry!" you cry out.

His hand freezes a mere inch away from the real Jimin's face.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry..." your voice falls, out of breath.

Turning to look back at you, his eyes spark with some unknown emotion.

You're still struggling to catch your breath, buzzing off the panic.

"That's enough now," you mutter. "You win."

A slight smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

"Are you done?" he asks with a raise of his eyebrows.

You sag in your bonds, all the fight leaving your body. You're tired. So fucking tired. It's all catching up to you, body and mind heavy with fatigue.

It's an odd relief. To give in.

"Yes. I'm done. I'll...be good."

A smile stretches across his face. His hand falls back down to his side, all interest in the real Jimin lost as he steps towards you.

"I'll do anything you want. Just please let him go." Your voice stutters around a sob.

Something snaps inside you. With one last swell of emotion and adrenaline, the floodgates burst open and let loose all the tears that you have left. Your vision blurs with them as you empty your lungs and let the tension drain from your muscles. Not caring that your face is mess and that you sound pathetic, you let the reality finally sink in.

Jimin strokes your face and presses a kiss to the top of your head.

"It's okay, love. It'll be okay," he murmurs, soothing. "I know it's hard, but you'll get used to it. I'll take care of you."

"Please," you squeak out. "Please just let them go. I'll do anything you want. Please, please..."

There's a pause. He continues to wipe your cheeks, contemplating.

"Anything, hm?"

You look up and meet his eyes. His face is content and calm, patiently watching as he gets everything he wants.

You manage to nod your head.

"Beg."

Your eyebrows knit together in confusion.

"What?"

His eyes are full of hunger.

"I told you that you'd beg me to sew the buttons. So go ahead. Beg."

You're numb at this point, so the realization barely stings. It only makes the lump in your throat grow.

The next moment, one of his legs reaches out to snip the strand of silk that you're hanging from. Catching you before you can hit the ground, he loosens the strands binding you so you can move freely again.

"Beg properly, now," he instructs, nodding towards the ground.

You grit your teeth as you sink to your knees, craning your neck to look up at him.

"Please..." you begin in a voice he can't resist. "Please, Jimin. I want you to sew buttons into my heart. Please."

His smile grows with each word, looking like he wants to consume you. In a way, he already has.

"How badly do you want me?"

What you want is for all this to end.

"I want you so fucking bad, Jimin. I want to be yours."

His eyes narrow slightly, cutting deep into you.

"Say it. Say it and mean it," he orders.

You close your eyes and imagine the real Jimin's face. The warm brown eyes, the faint freckles, the acne scars, the crooked glasses. You hear his scratchy morning voice, feel the brush of his hair on your skin.

"I love you, Jimin."

A sharp inhale.

You open your eyes, and the man standing in front of you nearly makes your heart stop.

He's standing there on his own two legs, no monstrous growths or oversized limbs. His skin is bright and healthy, glowing with sun-kissed color and a soft blush. Hair full and downy, it flows with a golden sheen.

But it's his eyes that pierce you. Because they're his eyes. Not dull and lifeless like glass marbles, but the eyes of the man you met years ago. The eyes so wide and full of expression, the eyes that crinkle shut when he laughs. Eyes that can barely contain all the love stored for you.

Jimin blinks, scanning you up and down, drinking you in.

"Kiss me," he whispers.

You close the distance with rapid steps, crashing into him. Warmth, his body radiates with it. His lips press soft and sensual over yours, arms wrapping tight around your body.

He is solid and alive. The only thing left to lean on.

You suppose you should be afraid. Now that the steel table is underneath your back, arms and legs held down with padded straps, most people would be afraid.

But somehow you're not. It might have something to do with the cloudy liquid that Jimin had you drink earlier, saying something about helping you relax.

You were afraid then. You were afraid when he lead you to his workshop and showed you where it would happen.

The space was cluttered with rolls of fabric, hoards of swatches and spools of thread, mannequins of all shapes and sizes. He led you past the cobweb-draped sewing machine, past the large desk that was covered in oddly shaped tools and instruments. 

You were afraid when you saw Taehyung already spread out on the table. Sedated, secured just like you are now, he looked peaceful there.

You remember struggling to contain the contents of your stomach when Jimin made the first incision. You forced yourself to watch, to make sure he delivered his promise. You watched as the two bloody buttons dropped into the silver tray with a clink. You watched Jimin stitch up the wound, clean it and dress it.

Then you watched as he slid the black key into the dusty lock hole. The little door, looking as if it hadn't been touched in decades, swung open to reveal the cobweb-lined tunnel. He laid the two men's unconscious bodies few feet inside, then closed the door and locked it for the last time.

You watched through the keyhole as they stirred. Jimin awoke first, frantic and confused. He tried to shake Taehyung awake, but he was still drugged. Slowly yet desperately, he dragged him through the tunnel until they disappeared through the other side.

You were afraid then, but not now. Jimin told you over and over again that you wouldn't feel a thing. He had the two buttons picked out and waiting there, next to the spool of black thread and a clean needle.

He assured you that it wouldn't hurt. You'd wake up foggy and be sore for a few days, but other than that there was nothing to worry about.

He said that the hardest part was behind you now, that only good things were ahead.

The last thing you remember after he put the mask over your nose, other than the smell of vanilla, is hearing him singing softly. The same song you'd heard him sing before.

Just let me love you.

~~~

a/n: 👉👈. thank you so much for reading!! if you enjoyed the story I would be so extremely grateful if you shared your thoughts!! :)