so we've all seen that Noah gets stage boners from time to time (and don't get me started on the fact that he goes commando often enough for us to see it). he loves the validation. he fucking loves the feeling of going on a stage and seeing a sea of people cheering for him.
but IMAGINE that maybe you're the reason for that stage boner. that you're the one he wants validation from the most. maybe he sees you in the wings, or out in the crowd, and is so proud that he's put on a good performance for you that he gets so hard it's hard for him to focus on actually performing.
There is one very very particular picture of Noah, and I will say this til the cows come home. But something about it gives off feral “I’ll give you a head start but when I catch you I’m going to slaughter you” vibes. And he’s smart enough to keep you alive for days, draw out your death in a way that gives him the utmost satisfaction. All while you’re crying and begging to be let go, telling him about your family, how you have a cat waiting for you at home. Trying to make him see you as a person and he just does not care in the slightest.
Run.
He doesn't need to even say it, honestly, because your feet are already running before he even slips his fingers from your waist. You've run incalculably far before you even realize you're allowed to slip the blindfold he'd tied round your head. You're not sure it matters or helps, or if it were a good choice at all when you're faced with the endless, selfsame forest surrounding you. There's a whistle that sounds and it has you whipping your head, but all you've done is lose yourself from the direction you're meant to run from.
Silly girl, he taunts, voice bouncing off the leaves and trees and sounding everywhere you thought you'd escape to, So stupid, so full of hope and longing.
The thorns are sharp, the roots trip you, and you struggle and stumble and fall until the vines simply wrap round your ankles and yank you to the mossy ground.
You asked for a chase, he teases, planting a knee at your head, you asked, and you got it.
His grin lights a fire at his eyes, lips peeling as though reaching for his ears. He's so tender, running a silversharp claw bout your cheek. Didn't I give you what you want?
You wish to scream, to speak, to make any noise at all. His knee is heavy on your chest.
You wanted this. You got it. Why are you scared, baby?
pt. 2 here
I think Folio would be evil in a terrifyingly normal way. You'd think he's safe - the one guy you'd choose over the bear - until he gains your full trust.
Evil Folio has an apartment in his basement. He claims it's for future renters, because the economy is shit and even though he could afford to buy a house now, he'd probably have to get a tenant to help with his mortgage. He's not gonna raise the cost, of course, and he'll cover utilities. The tenant just needs to know that once Folio's mortgage is paid, they're out. The only downside to this beautiful space (aside from the lack of windows, which Folio supplements with screens that mimic daylight) is the fact that the only way in or out is through the front door. No separate entrance.
At least, that's the story he tells.
When he dumps your barely-conscious body onto the couch, you barely register the imitation lights, or that you've gone below ground. He doesn't need restraints to keep you down, because he'd fed GHB into your drink and covered it with the hit of wax he'd immediately goaded you into taking after. You're no stranger to sleeping on his couch but when you wake, it's not to the TV softly playing the cartoons he left for you or to the sunlight peeling through the shitty blinds that came with his house.
You're cold, alone, only his fleece-lined John Deere hoodie lying on the chair across to keep you warm. You'd never noticed it before, but there are chains on the door up the stairs. And. You'd told your mom, your friends, *everyone* that you meant to go on vacation with these hours time off you've requested.
Maybe it's a prank. Maybe it's not. But all you know is your best friend has locked you up in his basement, and you're not sure when you'll be able to leave. The chain locked to your left ankle tells you half the story.
okay but getting chased through the woods is a terrifying concept, like all four of them as if it's a game and whoever catches their prey gets to keep them......
They're all there for different reasons, but the varying ends they're vying for can all be achieved by the same means: chasing you through the woods behind Folio's cabin.
Nicky and Jolly are persistence hunters. They don't really see a point in a running chase - you'll eventually stumble and fall, so why put in the effort? No, their chase is mental. They know you're scared out of your wits, and they love that - the smell of fear on you, the idea of being terrifying enough that the mere thought of them catching you sends you running. So they'll walk for as long as they need to catch you, of which they're certain they will.
Jolly likes to play with his prey, likes to terrify you further by whistling Swedish lullabies that resonate eerily through channels of barren, autumn bark. Nicky stalks silently, tracking the echoes of your panicked panting (thank you, Jolly) until he meets you on your path.
If you run into him, you'll turn only to find Jolly at your back, blocking your way out. They'll take you together to continue the game - who can break you first (or worst)?
Folio doesn't give a damn about persistence. This is fun! and he's got the stamina to run way longer than you have. He'll be the first to catch sight of you, but he'll let you slip time and again because the chase is most of the fun for him. He'll hoot and holler and snap his teeth at you every time he catches you, reveling in the way your breath catches, in the way the pulse in your veins throbs in fear. The more he intercepts you, the more scared you are, the more desperate you are. When he gets bored, he'll push you down into the brush, tear at your clothes until they're only scraps and fuck you mercilessly.
Noah doesn't play games. He's trying to be a Serious™ individual. When you run, he chases your path directly. Don't look over your shoulder, or you'll see him there, always on your tail. He makes no noise but the pants as he tries to regulate his breathing - in through the nose, out through the mouth. Eyes on the prize, nearly unblinking. Noah's greedy - when he catches you, he's taking you home, and you'll never grace the eyes of another but him.
For you and for the Stockholm Syndrome anon.
pt. 1 here
Okay yes because Evil Folio's basement apartment really was meant to be an apartment at first. When he bought the house, it was unfinished - just a whole floor of bare concrete, dust, and rubble - with a sad looking laundry space in the corner. He wouldn't even want to use it for storage in the state it was in, but it was affordable and the rest of the house suited him well enough, and he does love himself a home improvement project to work on when he's off tour.
But then he meets you.
He surprises himself when the first thought of it creeps into his mind. He'd always thought himself a pretty traditional guy in terms of sex and dating: meet pretty girl, court her like a 50s romance with flowers and dates and kindness, fall in love, live out a normal and comfortingly boring relationship. He'd never felt the urge to perform funny stuff in the bedroom, was a staunch advocate for mutual respect at every step of the relationship. But he can sense you're not fully on board with his advances, can feel the metaphorical feet kicking at his chest when his gestures toe the wrong line of friendship, can basically see a thought bubble thinking friend zone above your head; he knows he can never have you, and it breaks him just a bit, because you're what he sees when he pictures the perfect girl to spend the rest of his life with.
And then he takes you down there to show off the finished space, ready to be decorated, and sees you stood there all pretty in his house with only the door at his back to escape. He breaks.
You're unable to accept what Folio's done at first. It's just a prank, maybe something the two of you had joked about the night before. Any recollection of last night is in the wind - along with any context to what this means - with the wax you'd smoked. You always have been a bit of a lightweight with weed, and Folio has always been a stoner. When he comes downstairs a few minutes later, or maybe a few hours - you can't tell the time of day with those damn artificial sunlight panels you'd helped choose - and makes no move to assist.
It's not funny anymore, you try to tell him. He doesn't laugh. He only smiles a smile that twists his face something inhuman, shards of glass glinting in his eyes as he cocks his head, examining you, predator to prey. He does not speak.
The velocity with which you jolt between anger and bargaining gives you whiplash. You can't believe he's done this. It's been days and all he does is silently bring you food. When he looks at you, it's like he's looking through you, or perhaps at you but not at you; it's like he doesn't see you as human. You trusted him! when you trust hardly anyone. He was your best friend! He knew you were taking time off for yourself, that nobody would be searching for you - he planned this! All this time you were sleepwalking in sacrifice of your safety. But then the door rattles and his steps bound down the stairs and you drop to your knees, begging, pleading for release.
What do you want? I'll do anything, I'll stay in the house, just take this chain off! you plead.
He smiles that toothless, insensate smile again. It's so warm in the face of loneliness. I know you better than that. It's the only words he's spoken in a week.
He comes twice a day. You've learned to count that, now.
You contemplate breaking your ankle to free yourself of the cuff, and as much as you try, you only succeed in spraining it. You're craven to hurt yourself too much, even in crisis, even if it would save you.
It is a bleak resignation. What follows is perhaps worse. Or better. You can't decide; decisions take mental space that is currently preoccupied with how to live less.
If your best friend sees no more worth in you than to keep you chained like an animal, perhaps you are one. Perhaps if he's keeping you hidden from the world, then maybe you aren't deserving of the sunlight, aren't deserving of the freedom if he thinks you're only wasting it. You hadn't missed how he used to look at you like you're some prism reflected off a diamond in sunset. If, despite having the highest regard for you of anyone in your life, he thinks you're only worthy of imprisonment, then perhaps he's right. Perhaps you won't be missed.
It's all you think about for weeks, counting the faintly visible brush strokes on the wall across from you. Painting high together really was a bad decision - the wall needs to be repainted.
You don't cry for weeks, until you do: uncontrollable, hysterically heaving sobs that choke you with the effort before they can even be released.
The pressure in your ears must've distracted you because he's suddenly there, standing helplessly with a box of tissues. The couch dips beside you and through the glaze of salt-irritated eyes, you catch his arms outstretched towards you. You fall into his lap; he always was hesitant to touch first.
He wipes the snot from your face as you lie there, fingers brushing through your hair and smoothing it down, just like he always has done. Just like your Folio always did.
