The bathroom light flickered on.

Cold.

Bright.

Merciless.

Y/N stood before the mirror, her reflection staring back with eyes that held no mercy for what was to come. The wine coursed through her veins, dulling the edges of fear but sharpening her resolve. She had read the whispers online, the forbidden forums where desperate women shared secrets no doctor would utter. No pills. No scalpels. Just her body, her will, and the brutal ingenuity of self-inflicted ruin.

She started with the water. Boiling it on the stove earlier, she'd let it cool just enough—not scalding, but hot enough to sear.

Now, in the dim glow, she filled the basin, steam rising like a veil. Her hand trembled only once as she hiked up her nightgown, exposing the swell of her belly.

The skin there was taut, marked faintly with the first veins of stretch. She hated it. Hated how it pulled him away.

Lowering herself onto the edge of the tub, she parted her legs, knees splayed wide against the cold porcelain.

The water lapped at her thighs as she positioned the basin beneath her. With a deep, steadying breath, she pressed her palm flat against her lower abdomen, fingers splayed like claws.

She pushed.

Hard.

Deeper than instinct allowed, grinding the heel of her hand into the soft flesh where life pulsed unwanted.

A cramp twisted through her immediately, sharp as a knife's edge.

She didn't flinch.

Instead, she rocked her hips, forcing the pressure in rhythmic thrusts, each one aimed to disrupt, to tear at the fragile hold inside.

Sweat beaded on her forehead, mixing with the steam, but her face remained a mask—lips pressed thin, eyes locked on her reflection. 'This is mine,' she thought. 'All of it.'

When the first trickle came, warm and slick between her thighs, she didn't stop.

She reached for the bottle of castor oil she'd hidden in the cabinet weeks ago, the thick, viscous liquid that promised to churn and purge.

Gulping it down in heavy swallows, she ignored the bitter gag rising in her throat. It burned going down, a fire in her gut that spread like venom.

Minutes stretched into agony. Her insides rebelled, twisting into knots that pulled and yanked at the core of her.

She doubled over, one hand still pressing, the other clutching the tub's edge as her body convulsed.

The oil worked its cruel magic, forcing waves of nausea that doubled as internal battering rams.

She retched into the basin, bile splashing into the water, but she forced herself upright, resuming the grind of her fist against her belly.

Not enough. It had to be final.

She stood then, legs shaking, and moved to the floor. Tiles bit into her knees as she knelt, assuming a position she'd seen described in those shadowed corners of the internet—ass up, head down, gravity as her ally. Her fingers dug into the meat of her abdomen, kneading viciously, nails scraping skin until red welts bloomed. She punched lightly at first, then harder, each impact a dull thud that reverberated through her bones. 'Out,' she whispered through gritted teeth. 'Get out.'

Blood came next. Not a flood, but a seep—dark, clotted, staining the tiles in irregular smears.

She smeared it across her thighs with mechanical detachment, watching as it mixed with the sweat and the remnants of oil-slicked vomit.

Pain bloomed in earnest now, a deep, ripping sensation that made her vision blur.

She bit her tongue to stifle the gasp, tasting copper anew.

To hasten it, she twisted.

Grabbing a rolled towel from the rack, she wedged it between her legs, pressing it upward in brutal shoves against her cervix, mimicking the invasions she'd read about in ancient texts and desperate confessions.

The friction burned, raw and unrelenting, as she rocked against it, forcing dilation through sheer, savage persistence.

Her muscles clenched and released in forced contractions, each one tearing a little more, unraveling the unwanted bond.

Hours blurred.

Or minutes.

Time lost meaning in the haze of torment.

Cramps escalated to seizures of agony, her body arching off the floor as something gave way inside—a wet, tearing pop that sent fresh gushes of blood pooling beneath her.

She clawed at her belly, nails breaking skin, drawing rivulets that mingled with the rest. The metallic tang filled the air, thick and choking.

Finally, the expulsion.

It slithered out in a rush of fluid and tissue, heavy and formless, splashing into the basin with a soft, obscene plop.

She didn't look at first, couldn't. But when she did, her eyes narrowed—not in horror, but in triumph. It was over.

The intruder gone. Her body hers again.

She cleaned herself carefully.

Meticulously.

Erased what she could.

Composed what she couldn’t.

And then she went back.

Jimin was still asleep.

Exactly where she left him.

Peaceful.

Unknowing.

She stood there for a long moment, watching him.

Then—

she smiled.

Slow.

Soft.

Wrong.

You'll find whole story in ig just search @tinysmuts