#can you fucking see the brain worms wriggling around in my skull

[candylungs]

please post will smut im begging on my knees

Listen, one of us has got to get up. We can't both be begging in the dirt for Will smut. Rise up and take this naked depressed clown with you.

Notes: Congrats to Will for paying for bathwater before it became cool. This is barely smut. But I felt possessed writing it so here, take our cowboy clown enjoying a bath and then some brief tender non con.

Paying for leftovers was something Will seldom did. Especially not leftover water. The creek rushed frigid and fast and felt severe against his flesh. He liked that it made him cold straight to the bone. Numbed his skin enough that he could pretend that's all there was.

When he hurried to dry, pulling on clothes with his skin still half-wet, he felt like one of those carnival skeletons left askew in moldering suits. Mags hadn't liked them. She'd shrieked, almost delighted to be so alive and scared, and clung to her father's legs to be picked up and carried away. But Will had stayed. He had stared at them for a long while and tenderly shook the bare-knuckled hand when one of the performers waved it toward him. With much fuss, Mags had refused to be near him till he'd scrubbed his hands in a trough on the way home, their fathers laughing to see him so cowed.

Looking back, he had fancied them siblings of the Tulliver style. Mags was certainly so spirited. But the older Will got, the more he realized he had always been the hunchback. Destined to walk the forest, forgotten for shinier sights.

But then, what did that make you, always looking back to smile his way? And what could he make of himself, shuffling through the back of the Inn to pay to soak in a tepid tub of leftover bath water?

Will did not look at Amon beyond the smooth hand that snatched his coin, nor did he return the well wishes to have a good evening. He was pathetic. Desperate. So possessive of your being that even your leftover filth excited his passions.

He was erect and alone in the cloudy water you'd left just moments ago. Will had trailed near the wooden box that served for a bath house and had to keep adjusting his pants as he snuck close enough to hear the water splash. To hear the uneven tone of your humming.

What he would give to bathe with you. Would you let him smooth the pads of his fingers against your knuckles, he wondered. Would you let his flesh worry against them like stones. Could he hope to trail his fingers firm against the trail of bone that would lead him up, up, up to your pretty smile and kind eyes.

Isolated enough that he didn't worry about being disturbed, Will began to twist his cock, heart thrumming and face deeply flushed beneath the remaining smears of paint clinging to his cheeks and chin.

"That's perfect," he muttered as the slap of water led him to imagine your irises dissipating in the lapping of your pupils, so large, like moons, luring him closer. They would be easier to hold. The kind of eyes that were hungry and eager to swallow him whole.

Will would kiss you, pressing into your shoulders, tracing the hard circle of your bone as he licked your teeth. And maybe you would touch him too.

Your hands would find his elbows before trailing lower. "Is this okay," you would whisper against his cracked lips, because you were always considerate of him. Ever since he pulled a knife your first meeting.

The tickle of your nails against the hair of his chest and stomach almost felt real as he came, gripping his cock with both hands, whining through his release. It came too soon. He wanted to stay there with you longer. To linger in the remains of the busy day you washed away.

But he suddenly couldn't bear to be sitting naked in the middle of town anymore. Will hated to be in town even shielded in layers of dust and grease paint and the bleak night. His cravat choked him in his haste to tie it. He fumbled and missed a middle button of a once-smooth vest, no so worn that the swirling patterns were abrasive against his chapped fingers.

A few hours of waiting, well away from the dusty streets, calmed him enough to return. He loved to watch you sleep. Sometimes you slept so deeply he felt confident enough to lift your night gown and gaze between your legs. And then he couldn't help himself. He had to touch. He had to heat your skin against his until the blaze overwhelmed him to spill seed over your back.

Crouched at the foot of your bed, he felt this would be one of those nights. You were on your stomach, one leg hitched high, with your arms soft around your pillow. Will wanted to crawl under you and place himself in the circle of your arms. You could rot there together.

Or more novel, perhaps wake together day after day. And you would want to do that with him. Wake with him in your arms. Will shivered at that, his hands grazing up your thighs and forcing your nightgown up too.

"So warm," he quivered, "so smooth."

By the time you woke, mind and body beginning to wriggle into awareness, he'd already aimed his seed to paint your spine.

"That was wonderful," he couldn't help but say. One day he would do the same to your clavicle. To the space between your shoulders. Between your teeth. Maybe inside of you, between your thighs, the way everyone did.

He thought your head raised before he could get out the window. But Will buried the want to wait and meet your eyes. Scared that he wouldn't like the expression there.

Hope was something Will seldom did, but you still waved at him the next day and approached with a well-loved book of poems. Even when you both knew. He hoped you knew.

[businessbois]

went back through the wips cuz of the ask game and here’s the opening to the third part of my hair dye series. you can really tell during which era of the smp it was written but it made me laugh

There’s a strange pink thing on the floor in front of him. 

It’s small and squishy-looking and Tommy kind of wants to punch it to see what would happen. He doesn’t. But the thought’s there, wriggling at the back of his mind like a brain worm.

Brain worm aside, the thing is still right in front of him and now it’s making noise. Little, incomprehensible babbles and grunts and clicks when its claws tap across the floor.

It’s a child. And a really ugly one at that.

This is the part where Tubbo or Wilbur or even Phil would knock him upside the head and hiss Tommy like he’s done something wrong, but Big Men value honesty and honestly… the kid’s butt ugly.

Half pink and fuzzy, and half bone white and looking like one of those rag dolls Tommy used to sew during war-times. 

Tommy blinks at it.

It stops its noises. It blinks back.

Tommy makes a face.

A different noise this time. Lighter and higher like little bumps in the air.

He does the face again, pulling his face into an exaggerated mas— caricature of itself. 

It gets louder. 

It’s laughing .

(For a second, his stomach feels something other than gaping emptiness.)

Michael, because that’s his name, Michael Underscore-Beloved, claps twice and promptly knocks himself over because babies are dumb with bad motor control, especially babies who only partially count as living.

Not for the first time since being abandoned in this mansion, Tommy wonders why Tubbo and Ranboo thought this was a good idea. In all reality, they probably didn’t, but really had no choice because Ranboo had a Syndicate meeting and Tubbo had to meet with Big Q about something and everyone else (and he means everyone —Foolish, Puffy, Eret, fucking Sapnap) was busy. It’s okay, Tommy can live with being the last choice, least trusted and most surveilled. He’s more of a danger to himself than anyone else these days. Then again—the brain worm wriggles insistently—sometimes he fails to care about who he’ll take down with him in this state.

Movement snaps him out of his thoughts. A chubby pink hand enters his field of vision. He flinches back, but Michael is surprisingly fast and strong for an undead toddler. The piglin’s fist closes around a small patch of hair at the front of Tommy’s head. Tommy sucks in a sharp breath.

Of course Michael would be curious about it. Just because Tommy doesn’t see it—even forgets about it sometimes—doesn’t mean that the shock of white at the top of his forehead is as clearly a taboo to other people as it is to him.

Michael's grip tightens ever so slightly and Tommy glares at the child.

Don't you dare.

Oh. He dares.

With the nerve of a kid being raised by god-killers, Michael Underscore-Beloved lets out the loudest giggle yet and yanks.

White hot pain blooms from the front to the back of Tommy's skull. He gulps down a harsh breath and digs his nails into his jeans, willing himself to stay grounded. Tubbo probably wouldn’t appreciate him scarring his child forever by having a full-blown zombie boy meltdown in front of him.

Remember what Puffy told you? Remember the breathing exercises you practiced? Remember the obsidian underneath your—

It doesn't even hurt anymore, really. Tommy's dealt with much, much worse than grabby piglin kids, but Prime, his chest feels like it's about to explode.

In the end, it’s Michael’s shrieking, bumpy laughter—something very much absent from that prison cell—that brings him back to the present.

He pries his eyes open, flexing stiff fingers and forcing breath back into his lungs, and stares down into the menace's half-empty gaze.

“Little shit,” he growls in a tone and inflection directly copied from The Blade.

Michael claps (something he seems particularly fond of doing) and parrots back, “Little shit."

Tommy’s eyes widen. The words are leaving his mouth before he even processes it.

“Wait, wait, wait, no, no, no, no,"  the syllables tumble clunkily off his tongue, awkward after years of disuse, almost as if his mouth has forgotten how to form around the foreign language.

"Shit," Michael growls. "Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit."

 -

yeah so it was a hair dye (which comes a little bit later) fic to go with the theme but it was also an uncle nephew bonding fic with some “tommy knows piglin cuz of techno” hc thrown in

[gimmesumsuga]

Sweeter than Sweet (82)

AO3 Link

Pairings: Jimin x reader, Yoongi x reader, Jimin x Yoongi, Namjoon x reader, Taehyung x reader, Jungkook x reader, Jin x reader.

Warnings: Angst, threat, violence and mild gore 

Word count: 6.3

Previous / Next

“Sam?!”  you shriek, immediately regretting your choice in both volume and pitch when your voice echoes loudly in the wide open space in which you’re held.  It bounces back at you off of dirty white walls over and over and over, and you cringe with each and every echo.  Given the predicament in which you've found yourself the last thing you want to do right now is draw any unwanted attention.  Not until you’ve had a chance to speak to the girl sat bound to the chair beside yours, anyway.  

Sam laughs through her nose; a breathy chuckle as she tosses her head back to throw her hair off of her face.  

“Was wondering how long it was going to take you to wake up.”  She twists her neck to face you, smiling wryly despite the way you gasp at the sight of her - at the angry red mark that stretches all the way across her left cheek.  

“Jesus Christ,” you exclaim in hushed tones, “Are you ok?!”  And blase as ever, Sam just shrugs her shoulders.  

“Ah, I’m fine,” she says, completely dismissive of the finger marks that are lining her face.  “You know I'm not exactly the type to come quietly.”  

“I can imagine,” you say earnestly.  Despite the seriousness of the situation, somehow the image of Sam kicking and screaming and flailing her fists still has a smile tugging at your lips, and you’d bet good money on her having given a good slap or two prior to the one she received in kind.  You only wish you could’ve seen it, or that it’d proven enough to save her from being sat her next to you.   

You glance around your surroundings again as Sam sighs, relieved that your earlier exclamation seems to have gone unheard.  

“Who the fuck are these guys?” 

“Hell if I know.”  Sam shrugs again as she shifts on her seat, her wrists wriggling in their binds.  They must be sore by now; your arms are beginning to ache already, bent as unnaturally as they are.  “All I know is I was leaving yours and then suddenly I’m getting thrown in the back of some van, dragged in here, sat down, and told to stay put.”  She laughs humourlessly, glancing down at her lap. “As if I could really go anywhere else.”

“And they haven’t said anything?  Asked you anything?”  

“Not a thing.”  Your brows furrow in confusion, at a complete and utter loss as to why someone would go to the bother of kidnapping someone to not even make any demands.  Will it be the same for you, you wonder? Or are they just biding their time?  

“But why would they-”  As if on cue, your words are interrupted by the metallic screech of a door opening somewhere over the other side of the room, somewhere out of sight.  Heart pounding with a fresh surge of adrenaline you fall silent, and next to you, Sam does the same, quickly facing forward.  

After all the surprises that you’ve faced today, you’d think you might be immune to any more than might follow.  That’s not the case, though. Not when rounding the corner of a pallet of crates appears a face you recognise well - someone that if asked, you probably would’ve referred to as a friend.  

“You’re awake,” Alex observes, his steps a casual saunter as he makes his way across the room with two other men in tow, all three dressed in black.  “Good. I was worried that bump on the head might’ve been something more serious,” he says, though he looks anything but.  

Truthfully, you don’t even remember hitting your head at all.  You suppose it must’ve happened during your unexpected relocation; a reasonable explanation for the dull ache that’s been throbbing at the back of your skull ever since you opened your eyes.  

He squats down in front of you, his head tilting to the side as he watches you watching him, amusement twisting his mouth.  

“What’s going on?” you utter quietly, your brain struggling to come to terms with the fact your former colleague seems to have suddenly turned villain.  Or so you assume.  

“I guess this must all be pretty confusing, hm?”  

It’s strange, really, knowing this man in front of you whilst yet not really knowing him at all.  Alex’s voice is different. It’s lower. More assertive. His hair, too, has changed; the long flowing strands you’d so often seen him tucking back pulled up into a tight bun that makes the face that had once been so friendly look sharp and severe.  

Alex continues to smile in the same sinister fashion, and as he reaches out to smartly tap the curl of his bent index finger to the underside of your chin, lifting your gaze, a sensation like cold water trickling down your spine makes you shudder. 

“Poor little lamb,” he coos without a hint of the tenderness those words should carry.  “So naive. So totally unaware of the world that lies outside your twisted little love nest.”   You stare back at him blankly, gaze flicking back and forth between his crystal grey eyes in search of answers.  Vaguely, you’re aware of Sam next to you telling someone to get the fuck off and the sound of her chair creaking as she thrashes with indignance.  

“What do you want?”  You’re pleased that you manage to keep your voice from shaking despite the anxiety that has your pressed palms sweating behind your back.  Alex, however, seems disappointed by your lack of visible distress so far, sighing in what sounds like an awful lot like disappointment as he releases your chin and steps back, straightening to full height. 

“To put it plainly,” he begins as he tucks one hand into his pants pocket, “I’ve got a bone to pick with your boyfriends.”  With Jimin and Yoongi? Your family? What possible problem could he have with them? As far as you’re aware he’s never had anything more to do with them than brief small talk at the bar - and Yoongi isn’t exactly the chattiest of guys.   

“And what’s that got to do with us?” Sam asks brusquely.  You envy the way she doesn’t even flinch when Alex’s head turns sharply to fix her with a glare, clearing his throat before answering. 

“Didn’t seem smart to go starting a fight on someone else’s home turf.”  He turns his gaze back to you - nonchalant, casual - and the two men at his back exchange a look, smirking in a way that makes your gut roil with nerves.  “What better way to lure them out than with their most prized possession, right?”  

Alex smiles as realisation washes over you like an ice-cold tidal wave, dragging you under its surface and making it hard to catch your breath - to even breathe at all.  You’re nothing more than bait; a worm wriggling at the end of a hook.  That’s what’s going on here. He’s stolen you and brought you here to gain the advantage - to catch them panicked and off guard.

“But why ?  And why’d you go dragging Sam into this?” you ask, unable to withhold the questions that are whirring round and round your brain.   

“Her?” Alex scoffs with laughter as he glances at her, dismissive.  “A case of mistaken identity, I’m afraid. An unfortunate mistake.” One of his lackeys shifts uncomfortably at the dirty look that’s thrown his way, averting his gaze as Sam bristles with indignation next to you.  Anyone would think she’s taken insult at not being deemed worthy enough to steal. 

“Then can’t you just let her go?” you plead, unconcerned with however your desperate you must look as you lean forward in your chair, pain shooting down each of your arms as they’re stretched even further.  Alex is quick to rebuff you, shaking his head as he scratches at the stubble across his jaw, an expensive looking watch revealed as his sleeve pulls back.

“Don’t think so, not now.  Two birds, one stone. Extra motivation and all that.”  He shrugs his shoulders. “Plus she’s really made a nuisance of herself while she’s been here.  Thanks to her, several of my guys barely have their balls intact.”  

You hear Sam snicker and a glance to your left reveals just how pleased she looks with herself, smiling so hard she risks re-opening the split at the corner of her mouth.   

“As for why?” Alex begins, “That goes back a little ways.”

“Ugh, here comes the monologue...” Sam grumbles, her words going either unheard or ignoring as he continues to speak over the top of her.  

“See, when we were hired to take out your two pretty boys we were vastly underprepared.  And yeah, ok, we managed to get some good shots in - do our fair share of damage - but it was nothing compared to what they did to us.”  Alex fixes you in his gaze, eyes narrowing as he takes a step forward and leans in.  “Do you have any idea how hard it is to recruit people in our line of work? Guys who’ve actually got a brain cell to go along with all the muscles?”   

Unnerved by his close proximity, you lean back slightly into the wooden slats of the chair, swallowing thickly.  

“And then when that Namjoon guy left, holy fuck, it got even worse!” he exclaims, making you jump when he suddenly slaps his knees and stands up straight, throwing his hands in the air.  A quick look to your left shows Sam to be just as full of trepidation as you are, her throat bobbing as she wets her lips. “Your guys start working with the feds and now I can’t get shit done.  They're bad for business, and it's about time someone put them down."  

Movement captures your focus, and out of the corner of your eye, you note one of the men turning away from the group for a second or two as Alex continues to speak.  The slender man raises a phone to his ear, murmuring too quietly for you to have a hope of hearing what’s being said.  

"Besides, this is a public service we’re providing.”  You quickly look away as the man finishes his phone call and turns back to the group, moving in close to Alex’s side.  “I doubt the locals would be too happy if they knew their nice little town was infested with vampires ,” he spits the word like a slur, grimacing in distaste, and it’s only when his subordinate leans in to speak directly into his ear that Alex pauses his tirade, listening in intently.  

Bad guys momentarily distracted, you glance at Sam, sure that your expression must be an almost perfect reflection of hers.  Tense. Frightened. She mouths at you ‘what do we do?’ and you hate that all you can do is shrug in reply, as at a loss for what to do next as she is.  

All you can hope is that if and when you surrogate family come and rescue you, they’ll realise this for the trap that it is and be adequately prepared.  Surely you and Sam should be safe until then - if you’re the bait it makes no sense to harm you, right? At least… not in any significant way.  

“Speak of the devil.”  You jump in your seat as Alex suddenly claps his hands together, and when your head snaps back round to face him the smile you find waiting for you is one that’s entirely unsettling; wide as the jaws of a shark and with just as many teeth.  Too busy enjoying the rapid darting of your eyes and nervous wetting of your lips, he doesn’t take his eyes off of you as he orders his men to ‘bring him in’ - a sentiment relayed via another short phone call by the man who originally passed on the message.   

It takes a conscious effort to try and slow your breathing in the seconds that follow; soon light-headed from your panic-stricken panting.  You desperately try to look past your captors towards the back of the room, unsure of who it is you’re even hoping to see. Is it Jimin? Is it Yoongi?  Either way, the fact that Alex’s men seem to have already captured them can’t be a positive thing regardless of your longing to see a friendly face.  

God, please let them be ok.  Please let them be alright.  

You hear heavy doors opening and slamming shut in a great jarring clash of metal, the room falling silent save the echoing footsteps that follow thereafter.  Alongside each clean footfall, there’s an accompanying shuffle as though someone is dragging their feet - or rather, being dragged along - and the sense of unease in your stomach continues to grow with each pace that they draw nearer, ever closer to rounding the corner where you’ll finally be able to see.  

Half pushed and half pulled into your line of sight, you softly utter his name as Namjoon comes into view.  Flanked on either side, there’s a barrel of a gun pressed solidly into his ribs as he staggers forward in their grasp, growling deep when the shorter, unarmed man shoves into him from behind.  

“Namjoon!”  There’s no warmth in Alex’s greeting, no friendliness to be found in the smirk that twists his mouth as Namjoon is pushed to his knees in front of you all, thudding into the concrete.  “Nice of you to join us.” The vampire totally ignores your presence, his focus solely on Alex as he lifts his head and fixes the man towering over him in an unforgiving stare.  

“The pleasure’s all mine.”  Namjoon’s reply is delivered through tightly gritted teeth, and his jaw clenches as his captor decides to nestle his gun right at the base of his neck, directly against his spine.  “Obviously.” Alex chuckles, his head tilting to the side. 

“I’m little surprised to see you,” he admits, and honestly Alex couldn’t have hit the nail better on the head if he’d have tried.  

‘Surprise’ is a little bit of an understatement for how you’re feeling.  Of all the vampires that could’ve appeared through that door, Namjoon was the last you’d have expected, and now he’s here in front of you, you can’t quite distinguish whether or not you’re glad about it.  In the time in which you’ve known him, Namjoon’s been the root of your fears more often than the remedy. In fact, if anyone had asked you prior to him being knelt at your feet, you might’ve ventured a guess that he’d been involved in this plot too; one of Alex’s co-conspirators.   It feels a little disconcerting, then, when you realise that instead of fright, it’s a sense of relief his appearance brings. Perhaps if he knows where you are then the others might, too.  

Better the devil you know, right?  

“I thought you were smarter than this,” Alex smirks, “Showing up here on your own.  No backup, no plan.” He reaches out and takes hold of Namjoon’s sharp jawline, delight shining in his eyes as he inspects the vampire’s shabby appearance.  “Looking like shit.”  

You’re surprised Namjoon manages to restrain himself from biting Alex’s hand clean off with the way he’s glaring up at him, chest heaving with rage.  It’s not even as though he’s restrained, and though you know Alex and his men will have no doubt armed themselves with silver in preparation for this, it still strikes you just how sure of himself the young man must be to risk manhandling Namjoon the way he is.  

The vampire isn’t exactly putting up a fight, after all, so you can’t blame Alex being a tad over-confident.  From the look of his clothes and the way he tripped and stumbled in, the untrained observer could be forgiven for thinking that Namjoon looks sickly - weak - but you know him better than to be so easily fooled.  

Though his outward appearance may look worn, there’s a stark difference in Namjoon’s complexion now compared to the last time you saw him.  Some of the colour has returned to his face, no longer so sunken or sallow, and where once before his eyes were flat and lifeless now they seem to shine with a fire that has your pulse thundering with anticipation of what he might do next.  Like the master of deception he is, Namjoon is lulling them into a false sense of security. You’re sure of it.  

A low, warning growl rumbles from his chest as he yanks his chin free of Alex’s grip, visibly seething as the human laughs and shakes his head in response, completely unphased.  

“I guess even vampires aren’t immune when it comes to love’s foolishness, hm?” he goads, glancing at you with a fiendish grin, and for the first time since he entered the room, Namjoon’s gaze follows, meeting yours.  It’s only for the most fleeting of moments but even that brief eye contact has you feeling as though you need to catch your breath, so full of complicated emotion that your lungs feel as though they’re full to the brim with it.   

You can't deny the hate you feel for the awful things he's done, still frightened by his visage however grateful you might be to see it.  He must’ve continued watching you after your encounter at the bar to know that you were in trouble, a thought that certainly doesn’t sit well with you at all, but... he’s still here.  He came for you - put himself at risk - and you suppose that must count for something, regardless of whatever twisted reasoning might be behind it.  

Alex approaches you; his slow, purposeful steps providing the distraction required to recapture  Namjoon's attention and pull it away from you. Sharp, golden eyes narrow as he watches the young man close in on you, Namjoon's sharp jaw clenching.  

"To have so many of them wrapped around your little finger," Alex muses softly, reaching out to you.  Long fingers trace your cheek, your jaw, unfamiliar in their warmth, and you can hear a growl rumbling in Namjoon's chest so quiet it almost sounds like a cat's purr.  

Without warning, Alex's thumb pushes past your lips and presses down against your tongue, roughly wrenching your jaw open despite your nonsensical squawks of protest and the thrashing of your head.  

"This mouth must really be something special, huh?"  

"Don't touch her!" Sam yells from beside you, her struggles rattling her chair as a scuffle simultaneously breaks out; Namjoon quickly forced back down to his knees by the hands of four men as he'd attempted to lunge, snarling and gnashing his teeth.  

"Fuck you," Namjoon spits out as Alex laughs, amused by the display.  He doesn't let up on the pressure against your tongue, tears of panic welling in your eyes as you struggle not to drool.  "I should've killed you when I had the chance." 

"You're right," Alex agrees.  He pushes his thumb far enough back into your mouth to stimulate your gag reflex before swiftly removing it, smiling to himself as you wretch, tears spilling over and onto your cheeks.  "You should've."  

And it's then that you realise that the loathsome look on Namjoon's face is one you've seen before, back when the two of them had clashed before at the bar.  Suddenly it's like everything clicks into place; Namjoon's animosity towards your coworker right from the offset and his warning that you weren't safe. He'd known who Alex was from the start.  He'd seen this coming, weeks ago.

"You ok?" Sam whispers and you nod your bowed head, not wanting her to worry.  There's a bad taste in your mouth and an ache in your throat, cheeks wet with the moisture that still clings to your eyelashes.  

"What should we do with him?"  You raise your head sharply, all your attention focused on the man who just spoke - the man whose gun remains pressed between Namjoon's shoulder blades.  

"Put him down," Alex replies off-handedly, his back turned as though he's bored of you all.  "It's not as though anyone will give a shit," he adds, and for the first time since you found yourself in this place anger courses through you.  Like red hot fire it scorches through your veins, heart beating so hard you can feel it thudding in your temples.  

How dare he so casually throw away a life like that?  How dare he presume that there's no one left that would mourn him? 

Your mouth opens, about to protest, but before you can speak Namjoon beats you to it.  In the quiet of the room, he murmurs under his breath just loud enough to grab Alex's attention.  He turns back, head tilted.  

"Excuse me?" Alex enquires, stepping closer again.  "You have some final words, is that it?  Pearls of wisdom? Some last declaration of everlasting love?" Namjoon lifts his face from where he'd been busy glaring angrily at the floor, and as he looks up his change of expression has you frowning in confusion, bewildered by the smile that curls his lips.  

"Just one thing," he replies.  The silky softness of his voice seems loud in such a wide and empty room and in the pause that follows you unconsciously hold your breath, waiting to hear him speak again.  

"Well?" Alex prompts, impatient, and Namjoon's smile grows when faced with such frustration, a devilish glimmer in his eyes as they land on you and his lips part, commanding you.  

" Get down ."  

Namjoon's yell is the trigger that sets off the explosion of sound that follows thereafter.  Surrounded by angry shouts and ear-splitting bangs, your body seems to act purely on reflex, obeying Namjoon by ducking your head and screwing your eyes tight shut.  Sam screams in fear next to you and it takes biting down on your lip so hard it splits to keep you from doing the same, your whole body trembling from the sudden adrenaline hit.  

Metal doors slam and there's more banging, more shouting, and the chaos around you is ten times more frightening when you can't see what's going on so you open your eyes and then immediately wish you hadn't when you're greeted by the sight of one of Alex's men meeting his maker right before you; a demise made swift and brutal by the throwing knife that finds its mark in the side of his throat.  You can't help the sound that tumbles out of you when he falls to his knees at your feet, eyes rolling back - a pathetic whimper of fright that no one else will be able to hear.  

Another boom lifts your gaze from that macabre sight and now more bodies are pouring into the room, drawn by all the noise, and amongst them Jin and Jungkook and Jimin and oh god Jimin’s here and he - 

A roar of rage and a flash of motion in front of you, bodies blurring together as one and it's not until they stop rolling across the filthy ground that you realise it's Alex and Namjoon - a flash of silver and teeth bared.  

"HOSEOK!" Sam's yell turns your head just in time for you to see his boots hit the floor amongst the sound of gunfire, Yoongi landing next to him a mere second later with a grace unbefitting of the brutality surrounding them. There's a long knife clutched in each of his hands; weapons he's just about to use when Hoseok beats him to the punch and launches himself at the man who'd dared to approach them, neck broken and long dead before he's even hit the floor.  Yours and Yoongi's eyes meet for just a second, long enough for yours to begin filling with tears.  Relief and terror and love and all of it is just too much for you to even attempt to hold it back, the ache in your throat intensifying for every second longer that you look.  

Hands on your hands jerk you back to reality, jumping in your seat one minute and then struggling the next, feet kicking out wildly until you realise the fingers brushing yours are cold, not warm, and a familiar voice whispers hurriedly into your ear.

"Noona, noona, it's ok," he promises and an unattractive sob escapes you when you feel Jungkook's lips brush fleetingly against your temple as he swiftly breaks you free of your bonds, snapping the thick rope like sewing thread.  Next to you, Sam is being pulled to her feet, her newly freed hands clutching the thick harness straps running down either side of Hoseok’s chest.  

“C’mon, let’s get you-” Alarm registers on Sam’s face as she turns to look at you, and just as Jungkook is wrapping one arm around your waist to lift you to your feet the two of you are suddenly knocked off balance, another body barrelling into Jungkook’s side.  He goes sprawling backwards as you go the opposite way, your hands reaching out to brace your fall, palms grazing on the cold concrete. They take the brunt but you’re not quite able to save yourself in time to keep your head from smacking against the floor, and your vision spots and sparkles as you groan with the pain that explodes between your temples.    

The room rages around you as you blink back the haze.  You fight to remain conscious, forcing your head up only to be overcome with a wave of horrified nausea at the first thing you see; Namjoon just a few feet away, blood smeared around his mouth and dripping from his fingers.  Alex is trapped beneath him, defeated, and your stomach roils at the sight of the rivulets of crimson pulsing from his torn open throat. It pools underneath him, staining his clothes and running into eyes that are still open wide and staring - unseeing. 

Amongst the chaos Namjoon bends to drink, his eyes meeting yours as his mouth nears the source.  The look of terror on your face has him pausing - hesitating in a way he never would’ve done before - but before you either one of you can say a word another loud and unfamiliar sound makes both your heads turn.  

From across the other side of the room flames roar, the streams so vicious that you even you can feel their deadly heat from where you lay, sprawled across the floor.  Both men and vampires are forced to dodge the flamethrower’s wide range as they continue to fight, and as the flames come closer and Namjoon springs to his feet, you soon follow - though you’re not nearly so graceful in motion.  Your head swims as you stagger to your feet, head blindly turning this way and that in search of a friendly face to run towards but finding it hard to pick anyone out amongst the seemingly endless stream of Alex’s men that pour into the room.  

They’re well prepared.   Whether they carry a gun or a knife, each and every one is armed with silver and the knowledge of what it is they’re fighting - of their strengths and their weaknesses.  Useful information, but you can tell that it scares them. You can see it in their eyes. Their attacks are frantic and uncoordinated having been caught off guard and without a leader to direct them, but that doesn’t make them any less lethal.  

“Jimin!”  Yoongi’s voice cuts through the noise and you spin on the spot to find him, eyes landing on him first and then quickly following his line of sight over to Jimin where he’s trapped on the far side of the room, surrounded by three of Alex’s men.  

He’s fighting hard, his expression fierce, but it’s obvious he’s beginning to struggle as the two of them come at him with their long silver knives, blood already oozing from a defensive slash wound to his forearm.  More worrying still is the third - a man with bright blonde hair stood back from the rest with a gun held out in front of him, the barrel swinging to and fro as he tries and fails to take aim whilst Jimin is still moving so fast.  

Outnumbered, though, it won't take long until Jimin’s overwhelmed; pinned down and held in place to deliver a final, fatal blow.  It's a thought that has your stomach in knots, the same desperate look on your face as the one Yoongi's wearing as his efforts to reach Jimin are thwarted by another of Alex's men.  He's forced to stop - to fight - screaming out his frustration as his blade swings.  

Helpless, your eyes sweep the room.  None of the others seem to have noticed that Jimin’s in trouble, too preoccupied with defending themselves - or in Taehyung's case, revelling in the assault.  Seeing him now, throwing himself onto the back of the man wielding the flamethrower and ripping his throat out with nothing but his teeth, you're perfectly able to imagine the menace Taehyung had confessed he once was.  

A punch to his solar plexus catches Jimin off guard and knocks him off balance, crying out as his attacker takes advantage of his falter and slashes open his shoulder, the other aiming for his side.  Injured, Jimin isn't quick enough to recover. They grab a hold of him as he staggers backward, clutching his ribs, and your stomach drops as they force him to expose his chest to the gun trained on him, arms pinned behind his back and a knife pressed to his throat.  

As if sensing that these are his final moments, Jimin’s eyes find yours amongst the chaos.  Helplessness isn't an expression you're used to seeing on Jimin’s face but he wears it well now, eyebrows furrowed and eyes pressing closed as he cries out in pain at the blow he receives to his already injured side.  

It's not a conscious thought that has you suddenly rushing forward into the fray - no grand decision to suddenly be brave.  It's nothing but instinct and adrenaline that drives you toward danger, only vaguely aware of Jimin shouting for you to stop as your fist closes around the barrel of the gun.  You're unsuccessful at yanking it from his grasp but you're an effective distraction at the very least, yelling a war cry as you try to wrestle it out of his hands, any fear for your own safety long since gone.  

You can smell his breath as the man screams at you; stale cigarette smoke that has yellowed the teeth he bares.  His large fingers pry yours from the metal roughly, bending them till you're forced to let go, and he laughs as he lashes out and strikes you with it, the butt of the gun slamming into your jaw.  Pain ricochetes through bone and takes your breath away, barely conscious enough to register just how much of a mistake you've made until you feel cold metal wedged against your ribs and your body goes rigid, an unfamiliar hand gripping your waist tight.

"Stupid bitch," he grunts as Jimin shouts your name.  He's frantically trying to wrestle free of his captors in spite of the knife threatening to slice into his flesh.  You close your eyes, unable to stand the sight of utter panic written on his face.  You don't want your last look of him to be one so miserable as this.  

The barrel of the gun jabs sharply between your ribs and makes you whimper; makes your legs feel so weak that they'd give out if it weren't for your pride. 

If you're going to die, it sure as hell won't be on your knees. 

If you're going to die… you wish you could tell them you love them one last time.  

Bracing yourself, you clench your teeth and press your eyes shut even tighter as the gunman says something you refuse to give him the honour of hearing.  You wish he’d just get on with it. You wish he’d - 

Suddenly, you’re being grabbed - dragged - and when your eyes reflexively snap open it’s Jin’s face you see, the bridge of his nose purpled with bruises.  He barely looks at you, though, too quick to toss you to the side and then launch himself at Alex’s men to spare you anything other than the most fleeting of touches to your cheek; a tender gesture in the midst of such violence.  

It’s Yoongi’s arms that catch you - Yoongi’s arms that hold you back as you twist and turn, completely disorientated.  You don’t even realise it’s him until he forcibly takes hold of your face and insists look at him, eye to eye, and it’s only then you realise how hard you’re breathing; how sopping wet your cheeks are.  

“Jimin,” you choke out, barely able to speak for the fear that grips you, “Jimin, he-”  

“He’s ok,” he coos, his thumbs dirty as they stroke back and forth along your cheeks, smearing black across your skin.  “You’re ok. We’ve got you.” Yoongi tries to pull you into an embrace but you resist, unable to believe the words he keeps repeating without seeing it for yourself.  With a thundering heart, you turn in the circle of his arms this and that and soon see that what he’s been trying to tell you is, in fact, true - it really does seem as though the tides are turning in your favour.  

There are only small pockets of fighting left - loyal stragglers that haven’t yet fled that Namjoon and Taehyung are quickly taking care of with ruthless efficiency.  There’s blood smeared around both their mouths and looking around you see that they aren’t the only ones that have taken advantage of this opportunity for a fresh meal.  Jin’s busily draining what’s left of the man that had threatened your life and you watch with wonder as his bruises begin to fade before your eyes.  

And Jimin… 

Jimin’s safe.  Although bleeding, he’s still conscious, and the room has quietened enough now that amongst the sounds of gluttonous feeding and Taehyung’s whoops of joy you can hear him groan as Jungkook helps him to his feet.  Jimin looks to you, and though his hair’s stained with blood and his body looks near broken as he limps his way forward, you’re still able to summon a smile.  

You’ve never felt relief like this before - never experienced such a swing between high and low in such short space of time.  It has you dizzy. Euphoric.  

“He needs to feed,” you tell Yoongi, so giddy that you’re almost giggling as you say the words.  You slip out of his arms before he can protest, utterly blind to any danger that may remain as you rush forward, not noticing until too late the searching hand of one Jimin’s earlier attackers. 

Clinging to consciousness, he reaches beyond the pool of blood in which he lays.  His fingers close around his comrades gun and he lifts it, selects you as his target and takes aim.  

If someone asked, you couldn’t say where exactly the bullet hit you.  You couldn’t say you saw it coming, either, nor give an opinion on which was worse; bracing for death or having it take you by surprise.  

The pain of it takes your breath away, gasping your inhale as you stagger back from the force of it.  You can’t seem to inflate your lungs, your whole chest burning as you feel yourself falling, but even as you tip backwards Jimin’s face is the only thing that you can see.   He catches you in his arms to cushion your fall and your hands - scrambling, shaking - clutch onto his shoulders as your mouth flails uselessly, silently pleading for help in gasping, gulping breaths.    

You can’t breathe.  You can’t breathe . 

Your focus changes, wild eyes fixing on Yoongi and reaching for him - reaching but he can’t seem to see past the blood that’s dripping from his hands as he lifts them from your side, too shellshocked to speak let alone cry the way Jimin is doing.  Knelt at your side he has the side of his face pressed to your chest, his ear left above your heart as his shoulders shake and heave. As if somehow if he can just focus on your heart he can somehow keep it beating.  

Your fingers twitch with the want to run them through his hair but you can’t seem to feel them anymore.  You’re heavy and weightless all at once, your vision fuzzy and fading around the edges, and somewhere in the distance, you can hear sorrowful sobs.  Jungkook, you think. He’s calling for his noona and hearing it almost makes you smile in spite of everything - in spite of the ache inside your chest.  

Jimin looks up - his face wet with tears and eyes red-rimmed - and it strikes you then how familiar his expression is.  It’s exactly as he looked as he knelt over Yoongi before, in a situation almost identical to this, and you want more than anything to reach out to him and tell him that he’ll be ok.  To run your fingertips along the face you so adore just one last time.  

Yoongi will look after him.  Give Jimin all the love you haven’t had the time to give.

They’ll look after each other, you know that for sure.    

You feel your smile falter.  It’s harder to open your eyes, now, and you feel Jimin shake you, hear him call out your name.  His tears are dripping on your face and his mouth is on yours and you can feel them shaking but he’s slipping away.

He’s slipping further and further away from you and try as you might, you can’t summon the will to stay.  

Are you leaving, or is he?  You’re not sure any more. 

A voice calls out into the darkness as it lures you in, but it’s not your name that you hear - nor is it Jimin’s or Yoongi’s; Jungkook’s or Jin’s.  One word.  Loud and clear as it’s repeated again and again.

The knell of a bell.  

‘Hyung!  Hyung!  Hyung!’  

[flatfootmonster]

Running Past Empty

(read on A03 here)

Red seeps into my sweater. I didn’t even have time to use my newly honed anger because whoever ran into me, and spilt whatever this is, is long gone. I can’t even see the cup they must’ve been carrying. Whatever it is, it’s sticky. But it can wait. It has to wait. Voices and horns build to an overwhelming chorus behind me but it’s dampened by a fog that I summoned. I can’t focus on noise right now; I have to cross the road. 

“Fuck. Fuck. Are you OK?” One of the voices is a panicked buzz in my ear—and too close. Much too close. I feel sick. “Jesus.” That sound hisses between teeth; steam escaping a kettle that boiled too long.

“I’m fine, I need to go,” my words are thick, stammered through numb lips. Sangwoo was just there. I can catch up with him. He’ll probably scoff over the state of my sweater, say that I’m a baby that needs looking after. I don’t mind when he teases though. 

A shackle attaches itself to my arm. “You’ll stay there.” The buzzy-buzzy bee is persistent. I think I hate it.

There’s no time to look at whoever this fuck is that won’t listen, and I won’t reply either. I pull away with so much force his hand might’ve come clean off because his grip is still there as I leave him behind. When did I get so strong? I’m moving now, that’s all that matters. I’m moving fast and it’s OK. The bee follows though, like the memory of the hand, but the fog cuts in front of those sensations. I’m blocking them out because I have somewhere to be. 

My feet beat the pavement, each step smooth and measured. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this coordinated before. It’s because of Sangwoo, I’m sure of it. He gave me things; I can shout now, and I can pull away, I can run. He never said it would hurt though. Pain jolts up my legs—a familiar hurt but this time it spreads, it bleeds from bone to vein to nerve ending. When I find him I’ll rest, and catch my breath, too. Lungs shouldn’t be so difficult to inflate. Maybe I need more exercise. That’s probably it. Does he play sports? I should know that. 

Skidding to a jittery halt, I take a second to find my bearings. It’s no surprise the buildings that tower over my head are unrecognisable. They choke out the sky with dirty fingers of brick. I get disorientated a lot, you see. Plus, I was running towards the point I last saw him rather than pay attention to this road or that. Yet he seems to slip around the next corner when I think I’m gaining ground, the only thing I catch is a glimpse and even that is on the peripheral—right on the edge of the earth. Can’t he hear me? I’ve been shouting, haven’t I? Maybe this is a game.

“Did you call them?” Someone snaps those words out and they snatch my attention. I turn to find a mother looking down at a child. He’s holding skis. That seems odd but what business is it of mine what a stranger chooses to carry around? He used to carry me around a lot—Sangwoo did—and no one said anything about that. “Did you?” she presses, fear in place of impatience. What is she scared of? The shadows the buildings cast make their faces dark, features as indistinguishable and ruddy as the bricks. I can’t even see which direction their blackened eyes are pointing.

“Yes, yes. I did. I can’t make them get here any faster,” the kid replies but the voice belongs to the bee—it’s still stuck in my ear. When I blink their faces are pressed to mine, breath hot and sickening as their words decompose in their mouths. But there’s still no detail. The expanse where their features should be is pale, cold, and blank—a human-sized dead worm. I don’t want to look at them. My stomach squeals as my heart thuds once against my ribs in protest and they’re back in the shadows, merging with the buildings, voices melting and flowing into the cement that links brick to brick to brick. They are inconsequential—irrelevant to life; dead worms wriggling back into ashy soil.

If I stopped to catch my breath maybe they’d come back into focus, I'd find detail and explanation, and perhaps the buzzing would subside. I could maybe help with whoever it is they need to call—or mediate their disagreement. But I don’t want their faces so close to mine or their breath misting my vision—I have to go. Time is running out. It’s ticking away, it itches beneath my skin. 

It’s a narrow alley next, I chose it simply because this way avoids streets and voices and worms and bees. There’s only one voice that I’m looking for—I’m desperate for it because I’m drowning and it’s a diving bell; I need it to get to where I’m going. 

A man stands in a cobwebbed archway, phone pressed to his ear while glasses slide down a greasy, porous nose. He mutters, again and again, the same thing, “keep breathing, keep breathing, keep breathing.” His eyes don’t focus, they skitter this way and that like a spider, roaming the scratched wood behind him and the grey concrete beneath him. His face is grey, too, and when his eight-legged eyes find me the greyness spills over him. He’s a statue now and I’m glad because his gaze crept and crawled along my skin, his voice was needle scratching vinyl. A broken record. A broken, tired, useless record. Does he even understand what the fuck he’s saying? I know I don’t. It’s nonsense.

The narrow walls give way to a square but it’s empty, all I can hear is an alarm coming from somewhere—everywhere. It echoes from concrete planes the same way it bounces around the walls of my skull. Ignoring it is as simple and irritating as muting the agony throbbing in my veins. I still don’t recognise where I am. Slowing, the pain embeds itself deeply in bone, my marrow vibrates with every serrated inhale. Razors are in my lungs trying to cut their way out, climbing up my throat; the scores they gouge ooze with frigid sap. 

There’s a stand. It was empty before, I’m sure of it, but this won’t be the first time I’m wrong. It’s a cake stand, too far away to make out details past that. There’s a girl, standing with her back to me. Something about her stance is familiar but memories are on the other side of the fog, I can reach them if I want yet I have no desire to. She’s fumbling around in her pockets frantically. Behind the counter, there’s a blank slate of a man and one red round cake sat between them. He holds a bag of white icing in his left hand.

“His name? What’s his name? Isn’t there any ID?” 

“I couldn’t find any. There’s nothing,” her voice is the bees' voice as well. Too low to be authentically hers, it’s familiar but not in the same way her stance is. It should be odd, and it is, but I’m used to slipping and sliding around the wet tiled surfaces of reality. I’m used to things not making sense. And I’m used to being solely focussed on one thing so that it didn’t matter how reality is consumed by my abstract senses.

The man sighs, looks down at the cake before addressing it mournfully. “OK sweetheart, it’s going to be OK. Hold on,” he reassures the sticky, red surface beneath his bulbous nose. I suppose it’ll stay unnamed unless they’re going to write sweetheart on the top. Why doesn’t she know the name of the person she’s buying a cake for? And why is the bee still stuck in my fucking head? 

My body jump starts, every atom eager to move. I lurch forward, transitioning into an easy run, eating up the ground in long strides. Between the waves of discomfort and crushing loneliness pressing down on my sternum, I feel fluid and capable. My form flows and slips, if I just trust in the magnetism pulling at me I’ll find the sensation of belonging that my atoms are begging for. I’ll slip down the right cracks when I find it; I’ll write the correct letters; I’ll outrun the concrete.

I need to catch up with him. There was something off—for days and days it was off. I did something, or he did, and I can’t unpick it. I don’t know where the stitching went wrong to unthread and rework. If I catch him I can, I’m sure. If he just listens… 

I promised, you see. Wait. What did I promise? No—that’s a stupid question; It doesn’t matter if my brain cells can’t recall because my body seems to be making up for that ignorance. 

A wall towers above the building in front of me. It doesn’t seem to be a part of its surroundings; there’s no adjoining structure or roof to give it relevance within this rigid environment. It’s a misfit—I can relate. There’s only one thing that marks it useful. Up top, an old advertisement is plastered down with crumbling, infertile glue. Its corners are peeling, weather-worn, dull, and barely discernible. But I can make out a pair of bulbous eyes in a green face—I see a squat animal. There’s my compass. I’ve found my bearings.

An alarm’s going off again. It’s different somehow, in the way one hymn is different from another but when you’re outside the church—when you’re skulking around in the graveyard—it simply sounds like another incessant drone. I cover my ears, it needs to be blocked out. It can’t dictate my route. But it’s loud. I don’t like it, and—just like the composting heat of the stranger’s breath and the stinging, grabbing bee—I don’t want it. 

My skin prickles under the scratching hands of ticking minutes and seconds, counted out by a silent omnipotent force, pressing down on my sternum. My surface area needs to be peeled off because it burns. Everything is so fucking distracting. If my lungs were working like normal I’d sigh as all those things dull once more; the fog is back. It looks more like a veil now—cascading and shimmering in its divisive nature.

I round a corner where those spherical eyes were beckoning. This area is flattened. A building was demolished here and all that’s left is gravel, dust, and rocks. The debris forces its way into my mouth and fills my throat; I am the ground—desiccated and ruined. But I’m not sad because this is where I’m supposed to be, it’s how I’m supposed to be. I’m sure of it. 

But how do I find belonging?

There’s a new sound, a beeping when my lazy heart thuds against my rib cage. Maybe it’s a timer about to go off, but if it does go off and I don’t find him, then what? I can’t let that happen. He’ll be gone. Gone forever. I’m losing time, running on empty.

My gaze devours the gravelly tarmac and the bare walls, desperate for the merest taste of a clue. It’s just dust, everywhere is dust and nothing—like me. Where do I go? There should be an opening somewhere, maybe on the floor, steps leading down. There’s nothing though. There’s only stillness but I swear I hear him, his voice saying my name, muffled like he’s hiding in this silly game we’re playing without rules. He’s the childish one.

The wall. 

In the centre of the ruins, where the frog sits on top, there’s an old bricked up doorway. It’s the only entrance—or exit—and I can’t go back the way I came. I just can’t. 

Bum. 

There! It’s not a bee. It’s him. And now I know. 

Logic slips away, just like that mother and child did, as I run at the wall and throw all my strength at it. The barrier punches right back, sending me flying away from the threshold. The floor hits, if there was any air inside of my body I’d be winded. Hesitation doesn’t weigh my mass down so I scramble to my feet and run towards that same spot. Those nondescript breeze-blocks will give way, they don’t know how strong I am now but I do. I’ll prove it. 

My chest bursts again. The beeping stopped—the timer is done. In its place there are footfalls, bouncing from the concrete behind me, voices reverberate and buzz—a stampede of chaos that I’m trying with every last molecule to outrun. I never did understand it and now I don’t have time to learn. I don’t want to understand, not anymore.

“Hold on, sweetheart.” 

Bum! 

He’s here. He’s waiting for me.

“Stay with us.”

Maybe the statue came to life or the child became solid again, maybe it’s the girl with the cake or the man selling it. Maybe it’s all of them. I don’t want them, I don’t need any single one of them— 

This time the explosion makes everything reverberate, the ground shudders beneath my feet as buildings sway in a sickening dance. Brick fingers are pushing into the sky, choking the sun. Cracks appear between the bricks and there’s light there—on the other side. I will do it, they won’t catch me. They can’t catch me. 

The light says this is my last chance.

When I collide on the final assault my lungs tear themselves apart under the force of a silent scream. It’s been clawing at my throat, dying to be freed. It sets fire to salted rivulets the razors made before heat surges to a flashpoint. I’m turning inside-out. My burnt skin is splitting, the marrow is lava. The air in my ruined chest is ash. 

I’m combusting but no concrete punch lands; the floor doesn’t hit my back;

Four, twenty-eight PM, the fifth of the eighth. 

Water sloshes manically, slopping against a surface it found to break the cascade. It’s cold—the water is, and so is the air pouring down my throat. Haggard breaths send ripples across the crystalline surface, it’s the first thing to break through static-filled vision, pale and unblemished skin is the second. Everything is bright—pure.

“Bum?!”

Sight recovering, my gaze devours mint green tiles. I can’t grasp why it feels so desperate; notions and memories of panic and pain are slipping away like sand through my fingers. A squat green shape, two bulbous eyes staring at me from the sink, becomes the focal point as the black and white dots fade. It’s a ceramic frog, two toothbrushes and a half squeezed out tube of toothpaste sticking out from its back. It’s clean and simple, a faint smell of genuine pine lingers underneath the tang of generic shower products. Nothing is out of the ordinary, everything is exactly as it should be, so why does it feel like I’ve been pulled inside-out? Or maybe outside-in. 

“Bum! Where are you?”

He’s calling—that’s all that matters. That fact didn’t change in whatever seismic shift occurred. “Sangwoo?” My voice trembles, lips and tongue feeling as unpractised as an infant’s, but it doesn’t hurt to speak. Why would it hurt? 

If the water is cool, it’s nothing compared to the tide of relief that pulls me under, leaving my skin tingling and the fine hair on my body upright when he bursts into the bathroom. Why would I be relieved? He’s always here. We’re never far away from each other, people gossip over how inseparable we are. 

His face. I can see his face. It’s close to mine as he kneels, breath warm on my pebbled skin but it doesn’t twist my gut. There was something nauseating in that dream.

“I’ve been calling you for… for I don’t know how long. I thought—I don’t know what I thought. It was silly to worry. But I’m sure I checked here…” he stops, bowing until his forehead is pressed to my shoulder and huffs a laugh. He shakes his head, the imbalance of understanding that we’re sharing is echoed in a weak laugh.

And, powerless to the forces that move me, I reach for him—we’re magnets, we can’t be anything else. “I promised,” the sentiment tastes familiar, spawned from the crumb of a memory that slips beyond reason. What did I promise? Worry ebbs away and nerves soften because he feels right: skin clear, hair soft, and his heartbeat is so strong—like it usually is, like the rest of him. But maybe the vehemence in his grip says he understands the words, that somehow, in the hangover of an abstract dreamscape, it made sense to him. If anyone was going to understand the things I say that I don’t even comprehend it would be him. It’s always been him. 

“I think maybe it was a bad dream,” he sighs.

“Me too. Maybe we were stuck in a nightmare together.”

He looks up, the troubled tightness in his face melting away and leaving only easy, weather-worn memories in their place. “Like when we were kids?” 

Humming, I stroke through his hair. I’ve sat here long enough for my fingertips to wrinkle. The darkness seems vague, another era—another universe entirely. Yet, at the same time, it lingers over my shoulder, hidden only by a veil. The urge to look behind is dwindling, just like any solid dream fragments I could share. What does it matter anyway? “I think I spilt something on myself but—” I stop and frown at the floor. Apart from the small puddles of water, it’s clear. “I don’t know where my clothes are.” 

His mirth turns rueful. “Probably kicked them off somewhere that I’ll find later. Cmon, the dryer just stopped, you can put something fresh on.”

I try to sit but my muscles are infantile, too. “Whatever that dream was, it zapped my energy,” I sigh. Even my lungs are exhausted.

He shakes his head, fingers dipping into the tub. “It’s cold. How long have you been sitting here?” he tsks the question to a close. We look after each other, it’s just what we do. “You’re gonna freeze if you stay here any longer—and it’s dangerous to sleep in the bath,” he tuts again as one arm slides around my shoulders, the other beneath my knees. 

I’m not given time to disagree but I try anyway. “You don’t have to—“ 

“Shush. You’ve done this enough times for me—well, for the five minutes you were bigger than me anyway.” He grins down while plucking my mass from the water with casual ease. Contrary to my words, I soften against him. We have different strengths that we lend each other, you see. It’s always been that way. I know that. I remember. 

The journey is a quiet ceremony; we migrate from one room to another before I’m eased into a kitchen chair, wrapped in a fluffy, white towel. The clothes are still warm, Sangwoo stays centred and focused as he helps me dress. I’m quite capable of doing it myself, just like I could have walked here on my own two feet, but he’s persistent. There is always a dire plea in his eyes when he silently lends his hands to whatever task needs doing, and it’s fulfilled with a gentle touch and stern focus. It feels like repentance or supplication, and so earnest that I can never fight it. 

He’s always been determined, since the day we first met. Gripping tight to my sleeve, Sangwoo wailed until my mum came to investigate and forged an alliance with his mum. The rest is history. He can’t possibly remember that day but that doesn’t stop him from swearing otherwise—says he knew we were soulmates and that it was a matter of life or death to hold on with stubby, sticky fingers. After all this time I’m schooled to the silly, sweet things he says, letting them be without anything more than a grin and a shake of my head. Yet there’s something shiny about that memory. It shimmers in the ancient light of a summer evening and, for whatever reason, I forgot about its existence; slept too long and lost track of identity and time and place. Seeing it there, reflecting true warmth, drapes a comfort blanket over my consciousness; I want to bask in our history.

Those same fingers that gripped my sleeve back then now drag a sock up my calf, but they possess a few decades of knowledge beneath their fingerprints—they are no long stubby or sticky but calm, attentive, and skilled. He smoothes the wool flat and tugs at the seam over my toes to make sure it sits perfectly. 

“Do you wanna listen to something?” His movements effortless, Sangwoo turns to the fridge and items are taken out and placed on the countertop: eggs, milk, butter, a bar of chocolate—flour and sugar joins them from the cupboard. I’m transfixed by every last detail and action, every syllable that falls from his lips without it being translated within the confines of my upside-down skull. My body is righting myself and so I’m simply happy to sit here, snug in warm, fresh clothes and absorb. “Maybe the tape you made last week, or—I don’t know. Which one is your favourite today?” There’s a note in his words that proclaims years of experience when it comes to my quickly evolving, and perhaps fickle, favourites. And, of course, there would be. 

There’s no radio up here, we’re too far out to get signal, and so when we go to the lake to fish or swim we take the old cassette radio with us. A blank tape will be ready in the cassette slot to record songs as they’re aired. We have a kitchen drawer full of compilations, Sangwoo’s precise scrawl can be found on the case of each to note the date and song list. His methodical ideology doesn’t just stop at me, there’s notebook after notebook of days gone by filling shelves around this small home. Moments are recorded in detail as if to prove our existence in this world; we are here in this universe and this story will be left. It never fails to cast a spell of enchantment over everything. 

“Bum?” Feet planted before mine and a crease between his brows, he’s observing me. “You’re spacing out,” he mutters before pressings a palm to my forehead, “but you don’t have a fever. Do you need some fresh air?” 

I think he’s right. Air sounds good. I like the air where we live—it tastes freshly baked as opposed to the staleness lingering everywhere else in the world. “OK.” He weighs me up with his measuring gaze when I get to my feet but there’s no reason to worry, strength is restoring itself and even the memory of pain is unintelligible now. “I’m OK.”

“I’ll bring you some tea.” With that, he’s back to whatever it is that’s being conjured, and I’m trusted to get on with my own job—as simple as it is. A kettle full of water is placed on the stove while I retrace the path he made carrying me in his arms. 

Just past the bathroom is the front door. I say door but it’s mostly window; two large panels that make up top and bottom of the portal are crystal clear. It’s flanked by massive windows, too, because why wouldn’t it be that way up here? Where a panelled wall is required you have it, but if there’s any chance to capture a living portrait you do just that. 

Wood clanks against wood, the door swings shut as I venture out onto the porch. That sensation of experiencing something for the first time settles again, like a dewy web, yet it’s not discomforting. It doesn’t spark curiosity either because I’ve known since we came here that I’ll never get tired of the stretch of cosmos that wraps itself around these stone walls. It stretches this way and that. Green trees that sway in the breeze, dancing to a silent tune, build behind the house, rising to lofty peaks. There’s a handful of hiking routes that wind their way up there. Before me, the pines subside and flow towards the lake. The body of water below glints and shimmers; a mesmerising world of fluid secrets. The amber-blue sky stretches on forever, when the sun sets its understudy arrives and millions of diamonds provide a twilit reverie. Every day is like the first, and at the same time utterly unique. The secrets whispered are always slightly different, the shapes the stars make are always evolving.

This place might not seem much to some, or most for that matter, but it’s everything to me. Eyebrows tend to rise when people know we live together out here, like a couple of hermits, but we’re beyond caring about the thoughts or assumptions they paint. There were times we tried to be apart, building independent lives, but things would spiral into chaos and confusion; bad things ultimately happened. It was never worth the discomfort of trying to squeeze ourselves into empty slots in a puzzle when we never came from the same box in the first place. We found this peace right here, our belonging, and it really doesn’t matter what the world outside thinks.

Besides, we’re not hurting anyone. 

“Here.” I didn’t hear the door open and neither do I flinch with his apparition.

My gaze shifts from lush, green leaves to earthy, rich irises. The pleasure found there is fertile enough to coax a smile. It feels like the most natural thing in the world, and why shouldn’t it be? The mug offered is steaming—chamomile by the smell of it, probably with a little too much honey. 

“Thank you.” It’s sighed while I inhale the scent and let it wrap around me along with every other element within reach that’s whole and perfect. 

“And there’s that smile,” he coos the gentle tease. I’ve always loved the way he teases. His humour is mildly provocative but it soothes instead of stinging, the worst side effect being blushes. It makes up for my quiet demeanour and—if anything—he preens under the laughter that always comes easily from his audience of one. Sometimes my rare sarcasm trips him up, too—it’s served extremely dry. I have to admit a hunger in my gut is fed when his knees buckle under unforeseen hysterics. “You look much better,” he adds, expression mirroring the one he just shone a spotlight on. 

“I feel much better.” To prove the point to myself, my toes wiggle within their thick, woollen confines. Everything feels as it should again—better than it should. Energy coils itself deep in muscle and bone, eager to spring into action. Reaching out, I sate that desire. My fingers brush against his cheek while a pinprick of panic plucks at my imagination over what I’ll find. There was no need to worry, there’s nothing other than him. Past the stubble, he’s warm and smooth—soft even. Most wouldn’t attach that adjective to Sangwoo but, then again, no one knows him as I do.

He sighs, his eyes close, his head tilts into my touch. Yes, he is soft. 

“I’m glad.” Hand finding mine, Sangwoo’s grip weaves  around my fingers until they are entwined with his. There’s a ring he wears, a gift from me. It’s never been removed no matter what graft is demanded. There should be no surprise in seeing it where it belongs. “If you stay out here too long you might catch a cold.” To highlight the gently presented advice, and with an added chuckle, he ruffles my damp hair. “At least get dry first if you want to take a walk.” A light kiss is pressed to my forehead; a full stop for his nurturing thought. I bookmark the moment, recording every last atom vibrating around and within. I’ll return to this page—over and over and over. I just know it. “I have a cake to make,” he adds, taking a step back. A new spark of enticement kindles in his gaze, hoping that he’ll provoke some curiosity—or at the least hunger. 

Where I know him well, he matches that—step for step, word for word, breath for breath. 

“Cake? What kind of cake?” I can’t hide the eager giddiness in my voice, I wouldn’t attempt to either.

“Chocolate.”

My stomach rumbles on cue. “What’s the occasion?” Honestly, I don’t care, I’m already fantasising about the dessert induced coma I’ll fall into later, regardless of the reasoning behind it. Sangwoo is a magician in many things and baking is one of them.

A casual shrug is offered as a response before words follow. “It just felt like a cake kinda day.” Taking another step backwards, he’s halfway over the threshold. “If you’re around in about twenty minutes there’ll be a bowl and spoon to lick clean.” There’s another grin, full of mischief, and eyebrows that quirk before he disappears back into the warmth of our home. 

I’m caught up in the sweetest quandary. My legs long to pace earth and my fingers ache to touch pine, but the cosmos isn’t going anywhere right now… whereas that bowl and spoon might. 

His argument is compelling; Sangwoo knows my weaknesses. But we’ve never truly needed anything to persuade ourselves or convince the other. Nothing binds us here aside from free will, shone and reflected back in equal measures. He is me and I am him. We can’t breathe alone. 

[wearemystic]

Pulse (2 / 2)

Character(s): Reader, Mystic, Eddie Brock, Venom

Rating: E

Warning(s): N/S/F/W, breathplay, blood kink (if you squint)

You shudder underneath the watchful gaze of Venom, Eddie and Mystic, suddenly aware of the weight of their stares. It’s… not an unpleasant sensation, per se, but it still has you feeling like your skin is trying to crawl away without your skeleton and nervous system. The attention is too much.

Thanks, I hate it.

“don’t be such a big baby,” Mystic scolds you, stroking the side of your face. “she’s nervous.”

“Don’t be nervous, babe,” Eddie says. He looks like he wants to reach out and touch you but then he’s glancing at Mystic, probably remembering the only rule she’d set down. No touching. “Is-is it because of Vee and me? I know it’s kind of weird—”

You blink, alarmed that he would even think that. “What? No, no! It’s, um, it’s just in my head. I’m being a dumb. Don’t worry about it.”

Eddie frowns, but he drops the subject. Venom is watching you pensively, tendrils reaching out for your hand. Mystic meets him halfway, lavender merging with black. You gasp as something other worms it’s way into your consciousness. Mystic slithers up your spine and puts pressure on the parts of your brain that control the release of dopamine, the middle areas that don’t get stimulated nearly as much as they should. You suck in a breath as a rolling wave of calm-happy-safe seeps through your blood, but your heart still pounds against your ribs because something that isn’t Mystic is in your head.

“Uh, guys? What-what’s going on?” A general idea begins to form in your head as you look at Venom and Mystic’s intertwined tendrils, and you’re not entirely sure if you like it or not. "Venom? Are you - are you in my head?" Your voice trembles, and Eddie's eyes flash white in your peripheral vision.

"Yes." He wraps around Eddie's skull, coming into view as the Venom that criminals and nightlife scum fear in the streets. "You are… afraid, of us?"

"No! No, I'm not afraid of you, I - I just — " You trail off, frustrated with your lack of words. "I'm just, fuck. I haven't done this sort of thing before, you know, with two - three? - other people before. I'm afraid that I won't be good enough at it for you, I guess? I don't know, I'm being silly."

"You are being silly," Eddie says as Venom pulls back, both from Mystic and his face. It's unnerving to hear Venom and Eddie as one speaker while the symbiote retracts. "I - we - don't care about how it is for us. We want you to have fun, too, you know."

You think back on the expressions Venom had drawn out of Eddie, cheeks pricking with heat. "I've been having fun this entire time. Mystic has, too."

Eddie snaps his fingers. "Well, there you go, ki — shit, sorry, forgot about that. There you go, then. You're having fun, I'm having a blast, now can I — we — please see you? We wanna know what makes you moan and writhe and come."

Mystic rolls you onto your side so that you're facing Eddie as she moves to your back, much like how Venom was positioned with Eddie. She pulls at the hem of your old t-shirt slowly, revealing your belly and ribs and chest in a way that can only be described as teasing. Venom reappears on Eddie's shoulder, and they both watch her closely. You blink, flushing under their rapt attention. Eddie bites his bottom lip.

"'S not fair," you mutter.

"what's not fair, brat?" Mystic's movements pause, and she looks at you with narrowed eyes.

"He's so pretty!" Jerking your head at Eddie, you pout. "I wish my mouth was that pretty."

Eddie's face looks like the apples in your kitchen — bright red and the tiniest bit shiny.

"He is pretty," Venom agrees. "He is also very talented with his mouth."

Your breath catches, and a image of Eddie looking up at you from between your legs, lower face dripping with slick, flashes through your mind. "Oh, fuck. Wish I could test that out for myself."

Venom hums in consideration, but the symbiote ultimately says nothing else on the suggestion because Mystic has said nothing relating to it as she pulls your shirt over your head. The neck catches on your chin for a moment. You groan in mock despair, prompting a laugh from Eddie. Mystic pinches your hip.

"don't whine, brat."

"But it was covering my face," you say as it goes over your mouth and nose. "I was going to suffocate and die."

"that's a you problem."

"... Bitch."

"brat."

Eddie clears his throat. "Ladies, no need to fight. You're both pretty."

Both you and Mystic turn towards him, identical looks of irritation written on your faces. Yours is obscured by your shirt, ruining the effect, but Mystic looks fearsome enough for the two of you, you think. Eddie grins, holding up his hands in surrender. Venom flicks his tongue over Eddie's belly, licking up the cooling cum. You make a soft, frustrated noise in the back of your throat — you can hear it, but you can't see it. Mystic finishes pulling your shirt off of you.

Your nipples pebble in the cool air of your bedroom. Eddie makes a strained sound when Mystic drags a tendril over your side, curling around your left breast and giving it an affectionate squeeze. His pupils dilate again, black engulfing the grey. You rub your thighs together.

It's not fair, you think again, that anyone should be so pretty and so strong all at once.

Mystic wraps a tentacle around your waist, a comfortingly heavy weight on your hip.

You're just as strong as he is, lamb. You just show it in other ways.

Purple biomatter spreads warm and smooth down your back as Mystic moves towards your pants. You let out a sigh of relief when Mystic undoes the buttons of your jeans. The denim scratches against your skin as you wriggle to get out of them faster.  Jeans have always been your least favorite type of pants. You run a hand down your thigh. You wish you had thought to shave earlier. Oh, well.

"why is that such a big deal, anyways?" Mystic's eyes blink in a slow consecutive pattern, starting with the uppermost pair.

"B-because," you stumble over your own tongue as Mystic slides a tentacle beneath the band of your panties, "some people find a lack of body hair to be beautiful. It's just a weird h-human thing."

"well, it's stupid," Mystic hums in response, dragging her tongue over your pulse point and pressing down on it. You can feel your blood pushing against the pressure. You must make some sort of sound, because Eddie huffs out a laugh, palming his cock as he watches Mystic pull your panties down. Venom spreads over Eddie's shoulder and down his arm, coating his skin with black biomatter. You watch him chub back up through hooded eyes.

He really does have a pretty cock.

Mystic laughs, breath hot and wet against the skin of your ear. The vibrations go straight through Mystic, all the way down to where she ends and you being. She is almost, almost to your clit, and you whine. Eddie perks up, a questioning look on his face. "What's up?"

"she thinks your cock is pretty, eddie. we both do."

Your friend blushes something fierce, choking briefly on his own spit. Venom's mouth spreads wide in a toothy smile and you feel yourself grow wet upon seeing it. Desire spikes in your belly. Mystic growls low and jealous before cupping your face and pulling you in for a kiss. You tilt your head to the side, slotting your mouth against hers like a piece of a jigsaw puzzle.

She tastes like chocolate and — faintly — meat.

As she kisses you, her tongue slides into your mouth. You've kissed with tongue before, but that was years ago, with a boy who didn't know what he was doing. Mystic seems to know exactly what she's doing as she traces the inside of your teeth with her tongue, paying particular attention to the tiny points of your canines.

so cute.

I'm not cute, you think indignantly. I'm sexy.

you're cute and sexy, brat.

... That works, you decide, swallowing as Mystic's tongue slides farther back into your mouth, down your throat. Your eyes flicker open when Eddie jostles your mattress. He's sitting cross-legged with his other at his back, both hands lashed together and held up above his head by Venom. The symbiote has a tendril wrapped across Eddie’s lower belly and another wrapped around the base of his cock, much like before.

He looks painfully hard.

Mystic strokes down the inside of your thighs, starting at the point where your belly meets your hips and sliding down from there. The speckles on her biomatter shimmer as you moan, then sigh, when she brushes against your clit. You bite down on your lip, hard enough to cause blood to well up and dribble down your chin. The scent of wet iron fills the air.

Venom's growl rumbles in your ears. Mystic drags her tongue over the wound, sealing it with a caress. Eddie is focused in on the blood shining on your chin.

Your lip still feels swollen.

Mystic strokes your clit again, sinking lower to gather some of your slick on the tip of her tendril and rising to rub it all over the sensitive bundle of nerves. You tense, knees locking as you begin to feel that crest of pleasure. To your disappointment, Mystic pulls away, tsking.

"not yet, ducky," she leans in, whispering in your ear. "let's give them a show, hmm?"

"Y-yes, oh, yes, let's," you reply breathlessly. Turning so that you're looking at Eddie and Vee from between your legs, you spread them wide, flaunting the shining flesh and damp pubic hair. Eddie's Adam's apple bobs as he swallows.

"Oh, f-fuck. You're so, so wet. How...?"

You laugh and your other hums against your throat. "We get wet real easy, Eddie," you and Mystic drawl in unison. "Makes a mess, but it's always worth the clean up afterwards."

Your friend groans. Mystic divvies herself so that you sit between two thick swathes of her, sort of like if you sat on the ground between the legs of someone on the couch. She's warm around you, and you sink into that warmth like a bath. Mystic pulls your legs further apart, up and out of the way of Venom and Eddie's eyes. You can feel her excitement at the prospect of showing you off.

The air conditioner kicks on, and you jump a little before laughing at yourself. Eddie snorts, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "Jumpy, much?"

"Fuck off, it's loud." You try and fail to frown at him.

"Sure, baby, sure," he laughs. He stretches his legs out, nudging your hand with his toes. You smack at his foot; his skin is cold.

"no touchy, remember, edward?" Eddie's lip curls at Mystic's use of his given name, and he rolls his eyes.

"Fi-ine. Don't call me Edward, though."

"consider it payback for you calling us kid nonstop." Mystic sticks her tongue out at him. He rolls his eyes again. You purse your lips. You can't but feel responsible for your symbiote's misbehavior. You mumble an apology to your friend, voice catching as tiny tentacles begin to explore your pussy. Eddie waves you off, saying that he knows what Klyntar can be like. His eyes don't leave your fluttering cunt.

"Oh, shit," he says softly. "Fuck, I-I'd love to fill you up, baby. You look so warm and soft and wet; I bet I could just slide right in, no prep needed."

Your hips jump at his words. "Warn a girl next time you start dirty-talking, Eddie, Jesus."

Eddie just laughs and turns to look at his other when Venom joins in. "Nah, I don't think I will."

"We really won't."

"Can you imagine it, Vee? Stuffing her full and having her take us both at the same time?" Venom rumbles in response, rubbing the head of Eddie's cock. Eddie twitches, catching his lower lip between his teeth.

While Eddie is talking, Mystic — the sneaky bitch — slides her primary tentacle into your cunt. You whine low and raspy in your throat as she fills you up. Her teeth scrape your jugular as she thickens inside of you.

“Fu-uck, Myst, Myst, doll, please.” Eddie and Vee turn back to you in time to see you throw your head back against Mystic’s chest. You can only imagine what a picture you must make. You’re pretty sure that your face will be this red for the rest of your life. (Since you’ve bonded with Mystic, it is a definite possibility.)

“that’s it, brat, take it in,” she hums in your ear. “you do so well for us, looking so pretty like this.”

When she starts to pump into you, you lose all sense of self; there’s no way to tell where you cease to be and become her. There’s just we and that’s more than okay with you. In some far corner of your brain, you recognize the slick sound of Eddie stroking himself. Whatever — it doesn’t matter when your whole world is made up of Mystic and the things she does to you. You arch under her touch as she presses down on your clit.

She knows your body better than you do.

Heat curls in your belly, molten gold singing in your blood. You flex your lower muscles as you lift your hips, meeting Mystic thrust for thrust. You feel deliciously full. Your attention turns back to your breasts, groping them and pinching your nipples between your thumb and forefinger. Eddie moans when you duck your head and lick a line across the silky skin. You shiver when the unit-cooled air hits your saliva.

Mystic twists inside of you, pressing harder, deeper, than she ever has before. You hiss when she brushes against your cervix. “A-ah! Not that deep, doll. That’s too sensitive.”

Your symbiote hums an apology in your ear, stroking the swell of your belly as she presses upwards inside of you. Eyes wide, your breath catches when you see the skin rise up in the shape of Mystic’s tentacle. Holy motherfucking shit. That’s so hot. Why is that so hot? I didn’t know that would actually be possible?

“Holy shit.” Eddie’s words echo your thoughts and his expression is just as surprised as yours. His hand stutters in its movement. Venom picks up the slack, causing Eddie’s hips to jump involuntarily. “Hnn, fu-uck, that’s literally the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

You snort, biting your lip. “I don’t know, man, I’m pretty sure it would be hotter if it was us in you.” His eyes slip shut and his breathing picks up. “But you know what would be even hotter, though?”

Eddie hums in response. “What would be hotter than you inside me?”

“Us inside you while you’re in us — in me.” You’re pleased when Eddie moans loudly. “God, and then Venom could be inside my — our — ass. Me and you, we’d be so full, Eddie. I bet it would feel amazing.”

Eddie groans.

Mystic flicks at your clit. It hurts, just a little, but it sends the heat in your gut spiraling upwards. You whine. “Oh, god, Mystic, please.”

“please what, lamb?”

“Fuck, fuck, please let me come, I need to come.” You roll your hips in an attempt to get more friction against your clit. Your other presses down on your hips, holding you still.

“eddie. should she be allowed to come?” Mystic looks over at Eddie for input, slowing her thrusts into your pussy. An indignant sound leaves your throat. Mystic stretches out a tentacle and pushes it past your lips, silencing you — for now. You drag your teeth over her in retaliation.

Eddie breathes heavily through his nose, opening his eyes to look at you, and god, it’s an amazing sight. You're all spread out before him, legs parted and pussy facing he and Venom. They have a perfect view of Mystic fucking into you, a perfect view of your cunt shining with juices that Eddie wants very badly to taste. Venom slides a black tendril over the head of his — their — cock. It's almost too much and he barely holds back the orgasm building inside of him.

You give Eddie a pleading look, cheeks pink and saliva dripping shiny down your chin.

He wants to know what your mouth would feel like on his dick.

"Y-yeah, let her come."

"We want to see her face as she comes undone, Mystic," Venom adds. Mystic considers this and then pulls out of your mouth, moving the tentacle to wrap around your throat instead.

Eddie can see your pulse jump. He really, really wants to bite it and leave a mark that'll stay as a reminder of tonight. Venom picks up on this thought, rumbling in agreement. "She would look very nice all marked up by us, Eddie."

Your eyes go wide. You would like that. You would like that a lot.

"later, pet," Mystic says. "right now is for us." She wraps a tendril around your clit as she begins fucking you in earnest, pulling and lightly pinching as she does so.

Your orgasm hits you like a brick wall and you wail. Everything goes totally white, and the only thing you can really hear is the blood in your ears and Mystic’s ecstatic hisses. You clench down hard on her, pushing your feet against the mattress. Despite Mystic’s hold on your hips, you manage to lift them up, meeting your other as she fucks you through the fluttering pulse and ragged breathing that always comes after. Sweat drips down the back of your legs. You lay there on your back, heart pounding against your ribs. Mystic strokes your clit once more for good measure, and you twitch.

“You, uh, you good?” Eddie’s talking to you, but it feels like your head is full of cotton. You make a noncommittal noise, flexing your fingers against the sheets.

It feels like forever before you can see again. Mystic wraps around you, gentle as anything, pulling you into a sitting position. She’s warm against your rapidly cooling skin.

Thank you, doll.

wouldn’t be right to not care for you afterwards.

I know. Thank you.

you’re welcome.

“So, uh, how are you, Eddie? Venom?” It feels like your throat’s been scraped raw.

“I — uh, we — are amazing. Ho-ly fuck. Can we do this again, sometime?”

You snort, nodding. “Definitely. Maybe next time we can really take care of you.”

Eddie makes an agreeable noise in the back of his throat. Venom appears over Eddie’s shoulder and nods in agreement. “That would be good, wouldn’t it, Eddie?”

“Hell yeah, it would.”

[geournies]

GEOURNIES VOL. 1: Getting the Boot. (Ft. Intellia Kaelita)

CW: VERY GRAPHIC VIOLENCE, DOMESTIC ABUSE, DRUGS.

The clinking of glasses and chatter of patrons was much louder than usual at Dionysus' today. It was the middle of the month, which meant it was payday for the enigmatic Intellia Kaelita. And, that meant everyone at her favorite bar was getting free drinks, her treat.

"Damn girl, it must really pay to be such a fancy shmancy fashion designer, huh?" Spoke a young, tan-skinned woman to the sugar momma of everyone in the establishment.

"You could say that!" She drunkenly quipped, ferociously licking her chapped lips for any remaining liquor.

"Money does nothing for me anyways~ It's better put to use making everyone else happy instead of using it for empty self-fulfillment. You ain't complaining though, huh? I'm an emotional college kid's dream come true, aren't I, Ravennnn~?" She snarked, jabbing Raven's side softly with her boney elbow.

"Huh? Huh?" She repeated annoyingly while continuing to nudge the other in the side, the force increasing with each one. The one called Raven did not respond, deliberately choosing to ignore her agitator and instead sipped on her drink, a smile cracking upon her lips which were desperately trying to stay straight.

"Ignoring me while drinking on my dime?! Oh, you're so cruel! You know I'll die without friendship, and yet here you are depriving me of it as we speak! I can't take it!" Said the fashionista not even a bit sarcastically, latching onto her friend while she pretended to ugly sob. Raven cackled, following it up with a roll of the eyes

"You just can't be normal for one minute, can you? I swear, you're way more of a kid than me, despite being a grown ass woman. When are you gonna grow up and start acting 24 instead of 17, you weirdo?"

The hammed-up sobbing came to an end, Intellia wiping her crocodile tears away with rotating fists. Her fake frown was eclipsed by her infamous, uncannily wide smile, and she grabbed Raven's drink from the bar and downed the remaining half of her large glass in a single large gulp. Slamming it down with enough force to shatter the glass into itty-bitty pieces sent scattering across the counter, she turned to face Raven, Intellia being greeted by a dropped jaw. Knuckles proudly pressed into her hips, the high roller let out a satisfied AH~.

"As soooooooon as the Underworld freezes over, but the only thing chilly enough to do that would be your still b-beating heart, ya monsterrrr. So I guess that'll have to wait, huh?"

She stuck her blue tongue out at the one whose drink she just savaged, a condescending hum rumbling out of her throat at the same time. Intellia swiveled in her chair to face away from the bar and got to her feet, albeit clumsily.

"Excuse me, bartender! Please get my heartbroken little friend here another gin and tonic! Before she cries, hurry!"

And with that, she drunkenly poked the nose of her college-aged friend, then proceeded to bob and weave around tables and people in an attempt to go outside to satisfy her nicotine kick.

The cyberpunk stumbled her way to the front of the bar, fishing for an unlit cigarette as well as the lighter in her jacket pockets. She raised her leg to the rightmost double door and kicked it open. Once outside, she quickly took the cig and the lighter to her curled lips, flicking it a couple times before actually getting a working flame. Fashionista inhaled the carcinogens in, then letting it roost a bit within her lungs before puffing the smoke back out, a satisfied sigh following suit.

"An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth~ That is this world's ultimate truuu-th!"" She sung loudly, a particular pair of lyrics she adored originating from her favorite synth-pop duo, Radiumt. She twirled about in glee, dancing to the tune of her favorite song blaring in her head. Another drag. Puff. As she continued to fuck about like a child, repeating those lyrics over and over like a jovial drone, a large HONK lit up her eardums like a flamethrower taken to jet fuel. Her body was shot catapulting a foot or two into the air, a shrill screech squeaking from her ashen lungs. After her successful landing from the expedition she was sent on, she rotated her head over the back of her shoulder, stiff like a zombie. The windows were tinted, but that had little effect on her Advanced Vision Apparatus (APA). She could see in there like a seer could see the future, but the vision within was no good fortune. The muffled screams were now registering with her bogged up brain, along with the car itself shaking about like a wild animal was let loose within. Intellia's demeanor immediately shifted. The sneer morphed into one of disgust rather than annoyance. Her body stiffened up like a predator ready to pounce. Intellia briskly strode towards the vehicle, nails sharply dug into her fleshy palms.

Wasting no time, Intellia pulled up at the window and immediately pulled her right elbow back, her hip swiveling along with her. SMASH. A sharp jab at the window, glass exploded like shrapnel. Shards propelled into the driver seat, a jolt shot up the spines of the two passengers. Irises of the driver shook, he pulled his bulky biceps down from his face, the metal of his robotic forearms reflecting red from Intellia's visor. He barked at the window smasher, his gruff voice was as low as the ground.

"You dumb bitch! I don't even have insurance to pay for this! I'm gonna drag your barely breathing body to the ATM to pay for this window!"

She ignored his comment. She chose to speak with action. Her arms latched onto his shoulders, and with a pull of her upper body she ripped the beefy other from his seat in a single motion. His bulky bod caught some air time before it landed to the ground. THUD. CRUNCH. A shrap yelp of pain exited his diaphragm, with the only noise following being the clank of steel toed boots. They rung in the ears of the downed one, and soon he felt them being pressed to his temple.

Pressure. Pressure. Oh God the pressure.  His skull was cracking between pleas for for sweet mercy, the deliverer of the boot ignoring each plea. His airtight fist pounded on the floor, he was now at a full blown scream. He wriggled like a worm. His tree-trunk limbs flailed about, all whilst his judge looked down upon him with no emotion.

"Doesn't feel too good to be at the mercy of someone stronger than ya, huh? Thought I'd just see what you and pretend to look the other way? You wish, TRASH."

She hopped off his cranium, a final crunch sounding off. He wheezed in relief, his gaze locked onto the golden boots which nearly squeezed the life out of him. They turned to face him, the sight of the steel strip at the toe burning into his retinas. The right one cocked back, the other planted itself firmly into the ground. SWING. Much like the glass window before, the mixture of blood, teeth, and nerve ending shrapnel launched right into the man's throat. The noise he made was not even reminiscent of a human. It was eldritch. A gurgle from hell. His brain short circuited, his body launched into a clueless, horrified, bloody panic. Intellia walked away, only to turn around mid-stride in order to shoot a ball of spit directly into the newly dug hole in the man's face.

"Live like filth, die in filth."

Hissed Intellia at the squirming body of the man, her attention and presence once more shifting itself back at the driver side window. She peaked inside, her heart spiking in her chest at the sight within. Hers was greeted by the bloodied gaze of another male, much lighter in stature than the one he was with. Well, it was as close to as meeting as possible, as his swollen, black, teary eyes looked in the direction of Intellia. He sobbed tiredly, the carnage having just occurred not even registering with his brain. Intellia snappily opened the car door, sliding in and placing her hands delicately on the other's cheeks.

"Fuck. Hey, you! Are ya alright?"  

No response. She gently papped her hands on his blood caked cheeks to alert him, no response. His neck began to go limp and his head dipped in her hands. Intellia's heart pounded. Sticking her blue tongue out, she swiftly reached for and withdrew a tube in the pockets of her coat. Thumb pressed down on the button at the side, and a needle shot out of the tip of the tube. She gracefully jabbed it into the side of his neck, and released the button, the serume within ejecting into his vein. Instantly, the one fighting for his life had lurched forward, as if he just resurfaced from water at the brink of drowning. His breathing was heavy and rapid, he looked at Intellia, still too shocked to speak. Until he noticed the device she just ripped out of him, its contents fully empty now. His eyes widened about as wide as they could, his jaw dropped.

"You had one of those? And... I made you use it on me? Oh my God, I'm so sorry..."

He remarked, placing his beaten face in the palms of his hand.

"Please. Don't be sorry. Your life now is waaaaaay more important than the chance of me maaaaaybe needin' one of these sometime in the future. Trust me." She spoke softly, something she rarely did. She tossed the tube out the window, directly sinking it into a garbage can located by the carcass of the bulky man. "I'm 'onna take you somewhere where they'll get ya back to being better than ever in no time, 'kay? Just hang tight, you've been through a lotta shit tonight. Plus, the more active ya are, the quicker that good juice wears off."

Intellia pressed a button on the side of the steering wheel, which prompted a black touch screen to erupt from a cache in the center of the wheel. The beaten passenger pressed his hand to the screen, a green line scanning it, then promptly flashing an approving, green hue after. The engine revved, followed by the car pulling out of the lot. She turned to the stranger next to her once more before takeoff, her arm on the headrest of the passenger seat as she looked backwards while pulling out.

"Oh yeah... Forget about him, by the way. He 'aint really a thing anymore."

And to Double Helix HQ they headed.

END.