#fhjffj

[popgoes-theweasel]

Sends nudes. Rate that, weasel.

2,000/5. Easily.

[ohsweetsweettooth]

This room was a very foul smelling room. Cigarette butts were crushed in to the concrete, trash spilled from the trashcan like beans, and the windows seemed locked shut. Was that vomit he smelled? Mixed in with something sweet. And the smell of something old and salty made him gag. But what really turned his stomach was that Spice was forced in here when Octave was bothered by him. There was a thin mattress with a wool blanket and pillow, on top of a rusted frame shoved in the corner. Spice's bed. Dread filled his stomach as he walked closer. Disgust. Anger. Spice deserved better than this, why didn't he run away sooner? Old, crumpled papers were folded under the mattress, it looked like. Donovan lifted it up slightly. "Oh, fuck!" Ants spilled out like rice. He was dizzy. It was hard to see what you were looking at when tears blurred your sight. Octave was gonna get what was comin' to him, Donovan clenched his fists tightly. A place like this, on top of everything else? Really? No wonder Spice was thankful just to sleep on the couch. Why didn't anyone at the circus do anything? Did no one notice? Did no one care? Did Octave seriously think this was a good place for Spice? More thoughts and anger swirled his mind. He decided to get those papers under the mattress, too numb with anger to even feel the few ants crawling on his fingers. This was written in blood. Old, dried, smelled like cinnamon. 'CORE' was all it said. What? What did that mean? What was this in reference to? Why did he write it in blood? Donovan swallowed and grabbed the next one. 'Milk please' in sharpie. On the back it said 'anything'. And the last one was written in a blue pen. He didn't like this one. 'you have to get me out im going to die' in different handwriting in black pen 'i can't' 'please take me with you get me out of here' 'i'll come back for you' Spice had written something back. 'I know youre ly' the y trailed off almost violently. It was hard to even breathe. What kind of circus was this fuck running? This person deserved nothing less than what Donovan wanted to give him. Keep your cool, Donovan. Remember what you came here for, the key. The key... Spice said it would be in a bookshelf, in a book called '101 Dessert Recipes' with a blue jacket. It felt like he wasn't even controlling himself when he was walking, it was so hard to see, so hard to think about where you're going to walk next when you're planning an attack on the ringleader. Sure, Donovan could call the police, but right now he didn't have enough evidence. Hesitantly, he took out his phone and snapped a picture, the flash filling the entirety of this tiny room. He inspected the picture, wondering if this would even work. The bed, the bookshelf, the... bug problem, and-- Were those skeleton bones? In the corner? Feeling sick, he made his way over, hoping these were fake. Oh. Ants were all over them. It smelled sweet. In marker on the wall, it said '1990-2012. be better.' What? on top of the eaten skull were dead holly leaves. This was worse than he thought. This was way worse than he thought. All he could do was stand there and stare, tears falling down his cheeks. Foreign feeling. Trembling body. Tips of his fingers numb with rage. The Angels would have to wait, because getting rid of the Ringleader was top priority.