-Another story! I love this series a lot, haha. It's incredibly fun to write. Although...I have been thinking of writing some other one-shots for ANOTHER pairing I've recently fallen for. (oh how we love our ships, huh? XD) It's Cecil and Carlos from Welcome to Night Vale. Have any of you ever heard of it? (it's pretty awesome and the book just came out!) :)-

-Gentle-

When Minho went out for his run that night, he never expected to come face-to-face with Hell.

It was a lazy, violet night. The sky was painted purples and grays from the fast-sinking sun, and even a few stars were beginning to wink down. The streets outside were quiet and empty; not many people in this little neighborhood liked to be out late. It was a neighborhood of gentle neighbors and polite hello's. Or, at least, it seemed that way.

Out on the porch of a lovely, Victorian house, Minho was standing in the cooling air. His black Underarmour shirt inched up as he stretched out languidly. There were blue running shoes on his feet and though it was chilly, he still wore gym shorts. He hated running in sweatpants, though that would start happening when autumn fully set in. He'd only worn the Underarmour shirt today because firstly, it was cold, and secondly, it hid the Circle marked on his forearm. His parents, bless their hardworking lifestyle in business, still hadn't noticed it.

There was the sound of a window sliding open behind him and he glanced over his shoulder. Mrs. Park's face appeared between the wispy curtains, brown eyes caring. "Are you sure you'll be okay tonight, Minho?" she asked. "It's getting pretty cold out."

Minho smiled at her concern. "I'll be fine, Mom," he answered.

"You sure?" she asked again, ebony waves of hair falling around her worried expression.

"I'm sure. I'll go the same way I always do."

She rolled her eyes. "Through the woods," she deadpanned. She hated that her son went out into the woods.

"It's technically a PARK. Nothing ever happens there."

"Hmmm..."

"Mom, really."

"All right..." she relented at last. But then she tossed out a smile and a few parting words: "But hurry back, okay? Your father bought us a new movie to see and I'm making popcorn."

He returned her hopeful smile. "Okay. See ya, Mom."

"Have fun." She said it like she couldn't imagine what could be fun about exercise, but she knew that Minho was devoted to it. A second later, the window shut with a sound of finality. The night sailed ahead.

Minho took a deep breath and began.

He took the steps of the porch in an easy stride, then started down the street, to the right. There were lampposts stationed at different places in this neighborhood, watchful guards of the pavement. They spilled pools of gold across the ground as darkness gathered. Jagged black hair and running shoes were illuminated fleetingly each time Minho passed under one. Then there were the different colorful blurs of the houses. There was the Colson's house, pale blue with dark shutters. Then the Parker's, with their black cat, Susan dozing on the porch railing. The Edison's with a light on upstairs, where their studious son did homework every night. Each time Minho passed a house, there was a story to go with it. Memories from childhood of tag in backyards and racing down the streets. He'd known these people for a long time.

After the houses, there was a straight shot to the woods of Owl's Park. It was CALLED a park, but really, there wasn't much of a park there at all. Just two lampposts that served as a gate and if you traveled deep enough, you'd find a bench sitting between the trees. It might've been a park once, when the town was first founded. But there were no swings or picnic tables to show it. Just that bench, a lone survivor. Minho didn't mind. There were few that traveled the worn paths of Owl's Park at night, so he had the place to himself.

Twigs crunched under his feet as he entered between the lampposts and went forward, into the trees. They loomed above like giants, towering and scraping the sky with their ragged claws. Once in while, a wind would brush through and make them whisper. It was darker in the forest, despite the path cutting through some of the trees. Shivering once, Minho pushed on. Despite himself, he was getting an eerie feeling from the way the trees watched him.

That eerie feeling intensified when suddenly, there was a snapping rustle to his right.

Minho halted dead in his tracks, breaths heavy and feet unsure. His eyes probed the dim bushes to his right, but he couldn't make out anything. Maybe it was just a squirrel or something. Shaking off cobwebs of unease, he started off again.

Another sound. This one louder and from his left. This time, when he stopped, he was sure he saw a figure dart out of sight behind a pine. Cold fingers latched around his heart. Was it a dog? Or a deer. Yes, a deer, just a deer. They were pretty big and could make loud noises at dusk.

That thought assured him just a bit as he jogged on, slower now. It assured him until he heard the sound again, more than once, from everywhere, every bush waving wildly. It assured him until something big and hard barreled into him from the side. The air was knocked out of him and the ground rushed up fast to meet his face. He twisted so that he landed on his shoulder, not that that felt any better than faceplanting. "Ow! What the hell?" Glaring up to give his attacker a piece of his mind, the words quickly dropped from his tongue.

There were five faces grinning down at him, all of them savage and some of them familiar. Mrs. Colson. Mr. Gibbons. Freaking Mr. Janson, the awful, hook-nosed Biology teacher. They were all looking at Minho like he was prey they'd just taken down. Even in the expensive, professional clothing they wore to work, they resembled criminals in the dying light.

Mrs. Colson spoke first. "Hello, Minho. How nice of you to join us." Her normally-warm voice was like broken glass. Hazel eyes gleamed from her round face.

"I was wondering why he looked so familiar," Mr. Gibbons added, adjusting his spectacles on his nose.

"I told you, he runs here every night," a third woman put in, with curly reddish hair. "I'm friends with his mother. They live right across from me."

Minho gaped. "Mrs. Darwin?" he stammered. He knew her son!

"They aren't going to show up and ruin everything, are they?" a tall man asked drily.

Mr. Janson grinned evilly, beady eyes glinting. "If they do, we'll just have more to work with, won't we?" he asked. There were snickers and words of agreement passed all around. They were completely ignoring the bewildered boy lying on the forest floor beneath them.

"What's going on here?" Minho demanded forcefully. "You can't just attack me and then..." He trailed off as they all turned their gazes back to him. There was a strange, terrifying blankness in their expressions. It was like seeing the masks of the dead staring back at you. They didn't even seem human.

"Sorry, Minho," Mr. Gibbons said, fixing his spectacles once more. "But it's not us you should be afraid of."

Suddenly, without warning, they grabbed him. Hands under his arms and on his ankles, lifting him up. Minho had time to choke out a, "hey!" and then he started struggling. He writhed against their grip, causing yelps and cries of annoyance. Jerking a foot free, he kicked out; the sole of his shoe planted in the stomach of Mr. Gibbons and he doubled over with an "oof!" Minho's heart lifted with hope of breaking free, just as he got one arm loose.

That was when Janson punched him. His shucking Biology teacher, the one that he saw every day in class, drove a hard-knuckled fist into his face. Minho's mind blanked in astonishment. His head jerked to the side with the force of it, pain blooming in his face. "Agh—" That was going to bruise, and he could already feel a wetness on his cheekbone.

The others seemed to take Janson's lead. Mrs. Colson knotted fingers in his hair and pulled so hard, he felt tears in his eyes. The tall man brought an elbow down roughly into his stomach. Mrs. Darwin did the worst of all, by far, though. She freakin' kicked Minho straight in the ribs with pointed heels. It felt like a rock buried itself between his ribs. Minho cried out, arching his back in an attempt to escape the pain.

"There," Janson exhaled, out of breath from the scuffle. "He won't act up again."

"Damn right," Mrs. Colson agreed. To hear her normally-sweet voice cursing sent a pang of fear into Minho's heart. Who were these people?

"Let's hurry then," the tall man, who also had a balding head and worried eyes, said. "The others are waiting and we don't have all night."

Janson cast an exasperated glance heavenward. "Right," he huffed. "Help me get him up again."

They took hold of Minho again, four gripping his arms and legs, and Mrs. Darwin at the side to watch. Minho's beaten body protested as they hefted him off the ground and he winced. "Stop, wait!" he cried, twisting in their arms. "What're you doing?"

Janson, grasping one of Minho's arms, used a hand to brutally yank back Minho's head by his hair. A sharp gasp escaped the teen's throat. "Don't even think of trying to get away again, you little brat," he growled, and Minho's eyes went round. "I want to get this night over with and I don't need some kid getting in the way. So keep your mouth shut and take it like a man."

Baring his teeth angrily, Minho bit out, "go to Hell."

To his surprise, Janson grinned. "Oh, I will," he replied ominously. "And I'll be seeing you there soon enough." Then he glanced at the others. "Let's get moving."

They carried him off the path and into the trees.

Minho swallowed as the black shadows fell over him. All he could see was the dappled moonlight drifting between the stark branches above him, fading in and out as he was dragged along. He desperately wanted to fight back again, but he didn't dare. His injuries still ached and he needed to wait until the right time. He couldn't hope to fight them off until he could take them off-guard. So he waited. He waited and all the while, they took him deeper into the woods. He felt their hands on his arms and ankles like iron shackles. The places they touched felt suddenly tainted.

As they walked, the five kidnappers didn't speak. They didn't even look at one another. The odd blankness had fallen once more over their faces as they walked in steady strides through the underbrush. They stared straight ahead, as though they had a specific destination that they'd lose track of if they didn't focus. Minho couldn't begin to imagine what that destination was.

He only thought of how he was going to get out of this. The answer came to him in the form of wet redness dripping from the cut on his cheek. Blood. Blood! His pulse jumped. He could activate his Circle with blood. He could summon Newt. But the Circle was drawn on his forearm, currently covered by his shirtsleeve. He needed them to put him down to reach it. Again, more waiting. He gritted his teeth and settled in for whatever hellish ride they had in store for him.

First, he heard the sound. The crackling, ripping-up-paper sound of fire. It cracked like whips, snapped like ropes tearing apart. Minho's stomach coiled uneasily. Then, he felt it. Warmth. Consuming, intense warmth bathed his head, then his back. He began to see the orange glow above him, on the trunks of the oaks and maples. The undersides of the autumn leaves were ignited in the brilliant light. Minho had one minute to notice all these things, before they dropped him. His back met the ground with a harsh thump. "Ah—!" He hissed, then gasped as Mrs. Colson delivered a kick to his side. Rolling painfully onto his stomach, he gathered his arms under him. Pushing up onto his knees, he sensed the five attackers stepping back from him. He glanced up and paled.

A great, roaring bonfire rose up from the ground in front of him. Now that he could look around, he realized that they had entered a small clearing. And there were more of them. More neighbors and other people, spread out all around in a ragged circle. They surrounded the flames, watching them lick up at the patch of star-splashed sky overhead. All of them wore that awful expression of inhumanness.

As Minho looked on, Janson had taken a place in front of the huge fire. Chin held high in smugness, the teacher raised his arms. "Everyone!" he began grandly. "Thank you for coming! I know it can be hard to take you from your families so late, but I promised a show and you've all come to see. I appreciate it, and I know our friend will appreciate it too." He worded "friend" as though it meant something sinister.

The crowd murmured in agreement, some of them sharing dark smiles with one another. Minho's unease doubled. What were they planning here? What was going on? Some kind of weird town meeting!?

"And what else will our friend appreciate?" Janson went on. "An offer, of course! An offer of our friendship and devotion. A symbol of how dedicated we are to this life. I told you before that I would find something suited for this offer..."

"What the hell...?" Minho muttered under his breath. Offer? Devotion? They sounded like crazy devil-worshippers. Then his blood went cold in his veins. Oh my God, they were...

"I have succeeded my friends!" Janson announced. His greasy, graying hair gleamed in the firelight. It lit the harsh planes of his face, making him resemble the Devil himself. "After tonight, we will be in the favor of our friend, for all the meetings to come! I've given you an offering fit for a king!" He swept a triumphant arm around and pointed at Minho, cowering on the ground.

Every eye went straight to him. Minho could feel them like darts sticking in his skin. It was then that he knew he wouldn't be leaving. They were going to kill him. They were members of a cruel, unheard-of cult, and they were going to sacrifice them to the Devil. The terror that he felt then was unlike any other. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck and into his shirt. He needed help, now. There was no more waiting.

He remembered Janson and the others beating him with blackness in their gazes.

He hoped Newt gave them Hell.

Jerkily, he yanked at his shirtsleeve. Someone asked a question and Janson sighed, "bind him."

Panic consumed Minho as they descended on him, Mr. Gibbons producing a length of rope from his back pocket. He bunched up his sleeve frantically and glimpsed ink on his skin. Then someone seized both his arms and hauled them back. "No!" he cried, and wrenched at their hold. "I need to—Stop!" The ropes were passed around. His wrists were tied behind his back, rope cutting into his flesh. It hurt and then they tightened it even more. Aching throbs spread up his arms and a whine rose out of his chest. "No..." He'd never reach his Circle now.

After tying him up, one of the cult members buried fingers in his hair. For the second time that night, his head was hauled back by his hair and he clenched his jaw against the burning in his scalp. Cracking open his eyes, he glowered as Janson approached him. The teacher's face held such contempt, such satisfaction at Minho's state, that it sent equal fear and rage into Minho's body. He would've loved to be free, so he could beat the shit out of Janson. Bending down, Janson peered into Minho's face. "Comfortable?" he asked lightly. "Good. Because there's only a bit more that needs to be done and I don't want to be interrupted anymore."

"Screw you," Minho snapped hoarsely.

"Try not to be too difficult, Minho. This has to be done, whether you choose to act like this or not."

"Bastard."

Janson smiled thinly. "That's no way to speak to a teacher," he warned. Glancing up at the others, he waved a hand. "It's time. Get ready to carve the symbol."

An excited buzz rippled through the mob of the cult. They hurried into positions, all around the fire, lined up. They murmured to each other and rubbed their palms together. Some of them muttered things to themselves. Janson watched silently, hands behind his back. Once his members were in place, he reached into the pocket of his Biology teacher's lab coat. When he pulled it out, he was holding a knife. The wicked blade shone with the reflection of the flames. Minho's throat closed up.

Gesturing at Mr. Gibbons, who had remained by Minho, Janson ordered, "get ready to hold him still, okay? Let's make this fast." He began to roll up his sleeves.

"Wh—what?" Minho stuttered. He looked left and right for some kind of help, but none would come from these people. "What're you doing?"

"The symbol of our king needs to be carved," Janson explained, "in blood."

Minho's heart slammed into his ribcage. "No," he rasped. Janson was walking closer. The blade grinned at him with cold steel. He felt someone push his head downward and tug his shirt up to reveal his back. The cool air met his skin like death's breath. "Please, please..."

His horrible begging fell on deaf ears. Janson stepped around him, out of sight. Flames loomed over him from above and laughed at him with a hyena's voice. The fear and the dread were too much, too much. Minho was trembling. Newt, Newt, Newt...

"Now!" Janson declared, and Minho shuddered at his voice. "We welcome our king! We welcome our descent into our kingdom, together! Come with me, my friends, and celebrate!"

The cult members cheered, wolves howling into the night.

The tip of the knife touched Minho's shoulder blade. His body jerked. "Please, don't," he managed and nearly stood up. Mr. Gibbons planted both hands on his shoulders and shoved him back down. They trapped him there, utterly at Janson's mercy. Minho shut his eyes tight and bowed his head.

The blade sank in.

It stung. Badly. Minho sucked in a ragged breath. Then Janson began to draw the circle, moving the knife along Minho's back. It was a shallow gash, but the pain that it issued was incredible. Squirming in Mr. Gibbons's grip, Minho whimpered. All he received was a particularly deep cut into his skin. Janson continued his grisly work, carving symbols into Minho's back. The blood welled and spilled down in long, crimson strands. Groaning in agony, Minho felt the tears brimming in his eyes. There was fire before him and fire in his back. His skin was painted scarlet under Janson's hands.

He wasn't going to survive. If they could do this to him, they would end him for sure.

"Please," he choked out softly.

As if on cue, the pain dulled to a throbbing along his muscles. Janson had stopped his filthy task and straightened up. Minho was left in a crumpled heap on the ground. "Now," Janson declared proudly, "we call for our king!" He held the bloody knife high and the trees shook with their calls.

Minho prayed that it would be over fast. He didn't want any more suffering.

They all gathered in a continuous line, broken only by shadows cast by the oaks. Their heads lowered in devotion as they began to chant. It was slow at first, gaining momentum. The words made Minho's stomach twist. It was like writing on walls in blood or spilling ink softly across paper. He knew exactly what that was. Demon's Tongue. They were speaking in Demon's Tongue. For the first time, his fear shifted. What if the cult wasn't as crazy as he'd thought? What if they actually did call a demon here to slaughter him?

He was truly done for.

The chanting grew in volume and fervor. It seemed as though the very forest was trembling with their voices and the air was suddenly charged with electricity. Just then, the fire crackling before Minho shifted. Wincing, he lifted his head enough to watch. The flames were moving unnaturally, pushed to the side by an invisible wind. The leaves did not rustle and the bushes didn't clatter. Only the fire sputtered and danced in the unseen breeze. The chants swelled at the sight and the cult's exultant faces were distorted into ugly masks. As Minho watched, the fire let loose a great crack and flared into icy, powerful blue. Dread pooled in his chest. The light cast by the flames illuminated the people around him in pale blue. Janson was grinning widely. They wanted to see this, to see Minho die. He felt sick.

The ropes dug into his wrists. Blood, hot and sticky, stained his back and the symbol they'd cut into him. The flames leaped and howled with the cult's shouts. Minho closed his eyes.

They snapped open when he heard laughter. Rippling, oddly beautiful laughter rang out and echoed with a thousand voices. It was the very definition of evil. Minho shivered in horror as a silhouette appeared, black among the flames. It stood in the center of the fire as though it felt no pain—and why should it? The Devil surely felt no pain from his hellfire. The silhouette shifted and a wicked smile appeared, white fangs flashing. "Oh, dear friends!" the voice called, and the cult went nuts with cheering. "What have you brought me here for today? Care to make a deal with the Devil?" With a sound like a million gasps of air, the fire vanished into nothing. But its light remained, dancing on the tree trunks. In the middle of it all, standing like a prince before his people, was Newt.

All the air left Minho's lungs. He could hardly believe it. This cult didn't worship the Devil. They worshipped a demon. And holy shit, that demon was Newt.

Despite the less-than-enjoyable situation, Newt looked amazing. He smoothed his sleeves with a flourish, playing the part of a proud demon. His fitted tuxedo was blacker than black, an unfathomable color like the deep spaces between stars. Only his tie was colored, shifting from the star-studded indigoes and violets of the universe. He moved the smooth way snakes do, idly fixing a golden earring ringing the ridge of his ear. When Janson ventured a few steps closer, Newt looked to him with expectant, azure eyes.

"My lord," Janson greeted respectively, but wringing his hands in excitement. "We've come to you with no intentions of a making deal this night."

"A pity then," Newt remarked. He played with his tie with nails of darkest ebony. "I was looking forward to a bit of a game with you humans. Oh well." He sighed lightly, blowing some unruly blonde bangs off his forehead. "What do you want then, Janson?"

"We've come with an offering, to show our dedication to you," Janson replied. "It's much better than what we've brought you before."

Newt's gaze lit up demonically at the idea. "I'm impressed," he purred. "What did you bring this time? Another one of those stray dogs, like two months ago? Or a deer, perhaps? You humans seem to enjoy it when I ravage one of your animals." Baring his fangs, Newt grinned in a way that almost showed past blood on his teeth and on his clawed nails. He'd killed before, that much was certain.

"Even better, my lord," Janson answered gleefully. He stepped aside with an air of bravado, proud of his work. "We've captured a human."

"Human?" Newt chuckled. "You've done well, Janson. Maybe for your efforts tonight I'll even let you all see me posses—" Then he broke off abruptly. His eyes had found the human huddled in a bloody heap on the grass. Minho couldn't even find the strength to lift his head up anymore.

Newt stared.

Janson glanced between the demon and Minho in evident satisfaction. "He put up a fight, for a while, but we ended that quickly. Stubborn brat," he sniffed. "But anyway, he gave in eventually. We even know him; his name's—"

"Minho," Newt breathed.

Janson cocked his head. "How did you—?" Then he gave a startled yell, as Newt moved faster than lightning and seized his collar. Janson's toes left the ground, eyes wide and met with the burning glare of a demon. The cult members shuffled steps back in fear.

"You insignificant little wretch," Newt growled, thrusting his face close to Janson's. His fingers curled into the fabric of the man's shirt. "Are you so incompetent that you don't realize what you've done?"

Spluttering, Janson grabbed at Newt's hands frantically. "What do you mean?" he demanded. "He's just a human to you! Just a stupid kid in my Biology class!"

"How dare you?" Newt made a sound that rabid dogs made before they attacked. "You will never speak of him again, and you will never touch him again."

"But he's—"

"He is MINE," Newt snarled. "If you come near him again, you will rot with me in Hell." Without another word, he dropped Janson to the ground.

Stumbling, Janson managed to recover his footing before he fell over. Jerking his head up, he gazed at Newt in shock and fear. Similar emotions were reflected in the faces of his friends waiting at the sidelines uncertainly. Newt glowered around at all of them, hands in fists at his sides. "All of you!" he snapped. "Get out of my sight before I burn this forest to the ground!" The air around them shivered with energy and several tree branches splintered with resounding cracks. With cries and gasps of panic, the cult scattered. Underbrush crackled and twigs snapped under pounding feet. Their calls faded into the distance as they vanished, Janson hurrying after them, staggering over his feet. Soon, the forest was silent once more, save for the chirping of crickets in the grass.

Weak and wounded, Minho was bent forward, forehead against the cool grass. He felt utterly ashamed and beaten: wrists bound behind his back and horrid symbols etched into his flesh. Whimpering a pathetic, "I'm sorry," he tried to raise his head. Dizziness assaulted him and he nearly dropped down again.

Newt was there in a moment, kneeling and cradling Minho's head. "Don't apologize for them," he replied bitterly. "Never apologize for what they've done to you." He shifted to sit with knees folded under him, pillowing Minho's head on his shoulder and letting the human boy lean on him. Looping his arms around Minho, he worked at the ropes cutting into Minho's wrists.

Minho made a pitiful noise of relief when the bindings fell away. "God," he breathed out.

Surprisingly, Newt didn't comment on the use of His name. He just took Minho's hands in his and studied them. The sore, red-black lines where the ropes had been were ugly reminders of the cult. "Those wretched humans," Newt muttered, shaking his head.

Turning his head from where it rested on Newt's shoulder, Minho found his nose grazing Newt's neck. "Thank you," he whispered.

And, shockingly, incredibly, Newt's eyes softened. Minho's lungs stopped functioning. He'd seen Newt enraged, lustful, and smug before. He'd never seen Newt...gentle. But there was definitely gentleness in how he skimmed a hand down Minho's arm and touched a kiss to his hair. "No one," he murmured, "no one will ever harm you again while you're with me. I promise that to you, love."

Minho buried his face into Newt's neck, shutting his eyes tight. "Okay." He swallowed. "Can you...can you heal me? I don't want my parents to see me like this. They'll freak out and I just can't handle that tonight..."

"Of course," Newt answered. Reaching to Minho, he trailed his fingertips down along Minho's back. Everywhere his light touch traveled, a warmth spread beneath Minho's skin. At first, it stung, and he cringed. Newt murmured a few words of comfort in his ear, along with sweet nothings and lovely nicknames; Minho relaxed again. Finally, the warmth faded into something softer. The stickiness of blood disappeared. Minho sighed. "Thank you," he repeated, and took his head from Newt's shoulder.

Newt watched as Minho pulled his shirt back into place. There were tear tracks on Minho's cheeks and he wiped at them embarrassedly with an arm. Then he paused as Newt caught his wrist with a hand. The demon was looking at him with an intenseness that hadn't been there before. "What?" Minho asked.

There was a tightening around Newt's jaw, as though he was about to say something. But instead of light words and silver-tongued sayings, all that came out was, "I don't know." Slowly, Newt brought Minho's hand up and pressed the palm to his cheek. When Minho cupped the blonde's face with his fingers, thumb resting on his cheekbone, Newt sighed. "I wanted to kill them," he remarked quietly. "I wanted to destroy each and every one of them for this."

Minho blinked. "I understand."

"No, you don't. I don't understand myself, what this is."

"What're you saying?"

Newt met Minho's gaze. For a moment, for a small moment, Minho forgot that the beautiful boy he was looking at was a demon. Then Newt dropped his eyes. "Nothing," he answered. "Nothing at all, for now." Then he huffed out a final breath and turned half a smirk on Minho. Those sapphire eyes flickered. "Now. Let me take you home."

Minho rolled his eyes. "I'm not going to—" he began, but abruptly, Newt kissed him. The brief press of their lips didn't last long, but it sent sparks shooting through him. He was dazed when it ended.

"I didn't mean it the way you're thinking," Newt said, chuckling. Then he raised an eyebrow. "Unless you want me to, darling..."

"Uhhh, no."

"I had to try."