#on whether or not it was a crane or a human that did the camera work for the back lit portion

[chattoeart]

Fullmetal Alchemist Brotherhood: Role Exchange AU Resembool - Chapter Five Family Picture

The family got into position. Dante holding Selim and Theo holding William.

Theo had been keeping a stone-face, which wasn't surprising for him. He wondered whether he should smile, to be more in-line with most family pictures. However, he also worried that he wouldn't give a convincing enough smile and it would end up looking weird. This photograph was important to him: it was documented proof of his achievement. Proof of his family. Proof of a normal, human life.

Proof that he was more than a monstrous dwarf in a flask. That he had done it; he had grown into something new. That he could create life. Real life.

Proof that... This photo was going to be proof that he once had a family.

Proof that, for a short time, he was just like every other human.

He wasn't. He knew he was never going to be just like them.

This short little reprieve will pass before the homunculus knows it. As quick as a camera's flash, he will be staring over each and every one of their graves and he will be the same lone homunculus, once more, roaming the world with no purpose.

The homunculus had never once considered his immortality a blessing. However, it had never felt like such a curse as it did now. The connections that he's made with the humans in Resembool, to Holly, to Dante and their sons. He could not bare to part with any one of them. He didn't want to watch his wife and sons die and be forgotten about, as though they weren't even there to begin with. That would tear away whatever little spirit the homunculus had.

It almost feels like Hohe... like he had planned for this, all those years ago, just to add to his cruelty.

He had no desire to keep living any further. If only he could age and die alongside his wife and children, he would do so happily.

"Theo, are you okay?" He heard Dante's voice and was suddenly back in the room.

She sounded concerned. He did a quick scan across the room. William was still in his arms, craning his neck to look up at his father, frowning up at him. The photographer was in the process of packing the equipment away.

Had... had he already taken the photo?

"I apologise. I must have been lost in thought," Theo said, regaining his composure and placing his son down.

Turning to Dante, he saw that her worry hadn't subsided.

"What is it, Dante?"

"You've never... I've never seen you cry before," she said.

Cry?

Sure enough, Theo discovered that two streaks of tears were running down his cheeks.

I wanted to add a little more onto the AU. https://archiveofourown.org/works/10605651/chapters/109986238

The Dwarf in the Flask takes Hohenheim's position, of course. Dante (the "original" Dante from the flashback segment) plays Trisha. Envy is William, playing Edward, and Selim plays Alphonse.

[angeldcgs]

despite how strange it was to have found her locked up in her own basement, it was unlikely he'd ever jump to the right conclusion and guess her secret right off the bat. to do so, he'd have to already believe in the existence of such creatures as werewolves, and even if he did, pfeiffer hadn't given any indication that she was anything but human. a frightened one, kept away from the world for so long that she'd devolved into a more primal state, but human all the same. she didn’t have the ability to consider what she must’ve looked like from an outside perspective; how jarring it must’ve been to stumble upon america’s sweetheart in the corner of a makeshift cage, hair unbrushed and wild, her eyes full of fear and her body language more closely resembling that of a skittish stray dog than the young woman she was. he seemed as startled as she was, and it helped her drop her guard and turn her apprehension to curiosity. whether or not she still had the ability to speak, pfeiffer didn’t know for certain, but she didn’t feel comfortable enough to try yet, and so she merely shook her head, blinking those wide green eyes of hers up at him. her breath caught in her throat once he finally began to reach out, her heart rate kicking up in anticipation, trying to find a way to squeeze her hand between the bars to meet him halfway, though she knew it was futile. her parents had adjusted her enclosure several times since she’d been confined to it, learning the hard way that she wasn’t above reaching out to scratch at them if she had the ability to. instead of meeting her attempt at touch, he faltered at the last second, causing her to let out a soft whine of disappointment. she watched as he began to dig through his bag, impatiently craning her neck to try and get a glimpse at the contents of it, too eager for the promise of stimulation to think of the potential dangers that could be contained within. maybe he’d just been trying to gauge her threat level before he inevitably attacked, sizing her up just the same as she’d been doing to him. he could be going for a weapon, or a camera— or maybe he’d known what she was all along, and he was some sort of hunter trained specifically to kill her kind. there were so many unknowns, so many possibilities for harm, and yet they were the last things on her mind in the moment. she finally had the opportunity for some real entertainment, a little taste of freedom before she went back to her bleak existence, and that allure was too strong to consider her own safety. eying the crowbar he’d procured from inside his bag, a bit of those innate survival instincts returned to her, shying away from the bars and beginning to back away towards her safe corner. it was a weapon, of sorts, but he didn’t seem to want to hurt her with it. not yet, at least. he wielded it with a level of uncertainty, definitely not with the power or finesse of a hunter, and his efforts to break the lock were sloppy at best. still, the loud clanging of metal against metal was overstimulating, hurting her hyper sensitive ears and causing her to drop into a crouch and cover her ears with her hands to protect herself from the noise. her eyes screwed shut in an attempt to help block it out further, forcing herself to take deep breaths and remain calm despite the urge to crawl out of her skin and lash out for some kind of control.

instinctively, eugene’s mind began racing with the possibilities to why pfeiffer’s parents had locked her away. there had to be a reason, no matter how fucked up it was. it never crossed his mind that it might’ve been for her own safety, everything he’d read or seen about the girl had painted her as completely docile, the all american girl with the family to match. there was no valid explanation that he could concoct that would make sense, the only thing he knew for certain was that it was fucked up and he needed to get her out. who knew what they’d been doing to her, all sorts of horrible possibilities flooded to him as he thought about abuse cases he’d read about in the past and he forced himself to shut them out in favour of focusing on the task at hand. her parents could come home any minute and inflict all kinds of punishment upon him. his biggest fear when breaking in had been them calling the police on him and subsequently losing his job, now it seemed like a hell of a lot more was at stake. he waited patiently for a moment or two to give her a chance to speak, though no such response came. instead, pfeiffer kept looking at him with the same big, pitiful expression and placed her hand out on the bars, as if she were trying to entice him to reach out. "you... you can't talk?" or didn't want to, he didn't know which was worse. hesitantly, he reached out for her hand, readying himself to place their palms together before stopping at the last moment. "wait- i can- shit, hold on." eugene jerked away and quickly slung off his backpack, dropping down to his knees as he rummaged around for the small crowbar he'd brought alone to help pry open the window. the family were going to figure out someone had broken into the house one way or another, so he had decided to go with the quickest and most efficient method as opposed to something a little more discreet. so long as they didn't know who'd done it, he was in the clear. he had been planning to come up with some way to bullshit the means of which he found his evidence but now all of that had been tossed out the window because he was no longer leaving with some stolen documents or snapped photos, he was leaving with pfeiffer and there was no way of pretending like he didn't know where she'd come from. it'd be okay though, no one would be talking about him breaking and entering when they found out about her being kept in a fucking cage. in a weird way, they were helping each other. she'd be free from whatever tyrannical grasp her parents had on her and he'd be free from responsibility when he was dubbed a hero for getting her out of there. "okay, so i'm gonna..." after straightening out, eugene darted over to the door to the enclosure and eyed the lock suspiciously. "...break it? i guess." what else was there for him to do? wait till her parents returned and ask them for the key? something was terribly wrong and not only was he going to tell the world about it, he was going to save the day, even against his better judgement telling him to retreat back to the safety in obscurity. with one last glance cast in pfeiffer's direction, eugene set to work trying to break the lock, smashing into it with the blunt end of the crowbar, short, clumsy strikes colliding against the metal and echoing through the small room.

[claudeng80]

Up In Flames 0.5 (Firefighter AU)

Comes before https://archiveofourown.org/works/9339926/chapters/62157340

There are far more comfortable places Shirayuki could spend her afternoon than a folding chair in the equipment hangar. Her office has air conditioning, for one thing. There are decently comfortable chairs. But most importantly, her office is entirely free of arguing Wisterias.

“The whole thing is ridiculous,” Zen grumps. His voice is quiet, because everyone knows the steel ceiling echoes like nobody’s business, but his brother doesn’t bother to moderate his voice.

“You’re just jealous that they aren’t interested in administrators.” Izana grins, and Shirayuki can’t help but think whoever made that decision must have not seen the Wisterias in person.

“That’s not-” Zen breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth, audibly deciding to take the high road. “It’s for a good cause, at least.” At the other side of the room a bird shrieks, which sets off one of the dogs.

“That sounds like our cue to go,” Izana answers, unflappable as always. “Please make sure nothing gets out of hand.” He turns, and Zen sighs and follows him.

That leaves Shirayuki alone with a volunteer from the Humane Society, a menagerie of the most photogenic animals available for adoption that they could round up, one very pushy photographer, and at least one shirtless firefighter. “For a good cause,” she reminds herself and walks over to see what she can do to help.

Hisame Rougis, at least, is having a good time. “No, Lulu, I need that,” he coos, gently readjusting the python to free up his hand. Lulu bunches up for a moment, then loops around his bicep affectionately.

“You sure you aren’t looking for a pet, sir?” The Humane Society volunteer has stars in her eyes. Whether it’s at Hisame’s chest, which is, admittedly, nice, or at the thought of getting Lulu a new home, Shirayuki can’t tell.

“What would you say to that, Kiki?” Hisame cranes back over his shoulder, the photographer’s camera clicks like firecrackers, and Shirayuki realizes she’s not the only spectator here.

“No,” Kiki answers and unfolds from her chair. She’s not in her flight suit today, but she still draws eyes in sweats. Her T-shirt is loose, tied off at the waist. “No snakes.”

“That’s not what you said last night,” Hisame purrs.

“You wish, Rougis,” Kiki tosses back. It sounds like a denial, and yet she’s smiling. There’s something going on with the two of them. Shirayuki had thought, since she arrived, that Kiki and Mitsuhide either were dating or were on the way to something, but for the last few weeks-

They’re not talking, and suddenly Kiki’s got the time of day for Hisame. He’s friendly enough, but there’s something just a bit off about him. He’ll go over great in the charity calendar, though, if the photographer catches his smolder through his slightly-too-long hair. “This way,” the photographer reminds him, and Kiki passes beyond his directed gaze.

She stops by Shirayuki. “Did you see yesterday’s photos?” Her outstretched phone shows Mitsuhide grinning, a friendly husky dog’s tongue wrapping around his cheek. “It took them almost an hour to get the picture they were happy with.”

“How did you get a copy? I thought we weren’t going to see anything until the calendar?”

Kiki’s enigmatic smile is all the answer she gives. “You sure you don’t need some help keeping order in here? I’m sure the equipment audit can wait.”

In the distance, Hisame looks just as sad to say goodbye to Lulu as she is reluctant to let go of him. “I doubt Izana would agree.”

Kiki laughs, short but genuine. “You keep a close watch, then, and tell me all about it later.”

It doesn’t seem like there will be much to tell her, really. Everything’s much quieter with the Wisterias and Hisame gone; eventually the dogs back in the storage room stop barking, the photographer is engrossed in her laptop, and the volunteer plops into the folding chair with a relieved sigh. “Oh man, this is going to be the hottest calendar ever. I can’t wait to see it.”

Shirayuki would have to live under a rock to not have heard that people find firemen sexy, but these are all people she knows, people whose tonsils she’s inspected. Or worse. “You think so?”

“Oh yeah! This calendar’s going to sell so well, you’d better get your order in quick.”

She hadn’t really planned on it. It seems kind of unprofessional to have pictures of half-naked men hanging up in her office, even if it weren’t extra weird due to said men being her patients. And something about hanging it up at home feels even worse.

“Send in mister October,” calls the photographer, saving her from having to answer, but the volunteer is still trying to disentangle herself from the folding chair when Obi strolls in on his own. The smile on his face may be charming, but his shoulders are tense. The photographer takes a thorough survey, from head to toe. “Inky and Sue, I think,” she tosses off to the volunteer, who nods and heads back into the storage room.

“They’re not dogs, right?” Obi clutches at his T-shirt. He jumps out of planes and walks into fires for a living. He killed a rattlesnake that got into the building, once. But the sigh of relief he breathes when the volunteer returns carrying two tiny kittens is audible all the way across the room. He reaches out his gloved hands, and the photographer clicks her tongue. His hands freeze outstretched. “Oh.”

His eyes flick to Shirayuki - she may be across the room, but she can’t miss it. Still watching her, he reaches the back of his neck and pulls off his T-shirt. Cloth slides over muscles, then over scars, and it’s all too obvious when the photographer sees it. She stops, she stares, and Obi’s hand comes up to grasp at his shoulder.

It's only because she's watching so slowly that Shirayuki sees blood smear under his finger. "You're hurt!"

That, at least, interrupts the photographer's stare. Obi stares too, for a moment before he too notices the blood. "Just a scratch," he says.

"Let me clean it up for you," she insists, and drags him out into the hallway.

"It's really nothing." He doesn't wave her hands away, at least, as she pulls an alcohol wipe from her pocket and tears it open. "They want wilderness firefighters, they have to expect some of us are going to show off more than just a tan. Nobody trusts a firefighter without a few marks on him." It falls from his lips too easily, like it's something he's been telling himself, and his shoulders curl inward. Skin pulls and folds at the white scar across his chest.

“Maybe the photographer will work with you to find a pose you’re comfortable with.” He stares at her like she’s speaking a foreign language. She doesn’t want to say it outright, but she’s no Izana to get her ideas across with less than half the words it should take. “Something that doesn’t show anything you don’t want to show?”

She can’t look at his face anymore, so she busies herself with the scratch. It really was a minor as he said, and it’s very clean now. His hand comes up to capture hers, gently lifting it off his shoulder. “You mean the chick magnet here, I take it.” His other hand taps the scar.

It’s hard to figure how he means that, whether it’s serious or yet another self-deprecating joke. There’s nothing to do but insist. “I meant anything-”

“It’s all right. This is from a long time ago.” She hasn’t seen this gentle smile on him before. His fingers cradle her wrist like it’s a bird, or something he’ll protect until it’s ready to take flight once more- hopefully he can’t feel her pulse speeding as the moment stretches. “If you’d been there, there probably wouldn’t even have been a scar.”

The equipment hangar door screeches and the volunteer leans out, looking frazzled. She’s still clutching the kittens, which are yowling angrily. “Are you almost ready?”

“Showtime,” says Obi. Gently, he frees Shirayuki’s hand, then rocks to a stand like he’s ready to run. “I’m ready for my close-up,” he calls out to the photographer as he swans back into the room.

Shirayuki watches him go, cupping her hand to her chest.

***

There’s a suspiciously large envelope rolled up in Shirayuki’s office mail. She has a pretty good suspicion of what it must be, but when she slits open the flap she still forces herself to read the letter first. “Thank you for your tax-deductible contribution to the Humane Society . . .” it begins, and something flips in the vicinity of her stomach. It’s here.

The calendar is glossy and printed on good paper- she tries to smooth it flat, where it had been rolled up in her mailbox, but it springs back to a curve. Time and gravity will fix that, once she hangs it up.

If she hangs it up.

Mitsuhide got the January spot, laughing as a very large dog stretches to kiss him. Hisame, in June, looks mysterious and alluring with Lulu staring directly at the camera. Shikito, in August, bends down to fill a water bowl for a beagle puppy.

She hesitates over September. Not that she minds Shuka wielding a hammer assembling some kind of enclosure as two adorable little brown rabbits watch, but she isn’t quite sure she’s ready to turn the page.

“The sexiest yet,” the Humane Society volunteer had whispered in her ear, all but vibrating as they watched Obi pose for the photographer.

But if she turns the page, she’s going to have to have something to say when he asks what she thinks. She’ll have to have an opinion. She’s going to have to tell him he’s sexy.

She’s being silly. Reckless, she flips the page, and there’s Obi’s profile- the photo is from his back, every muscle lit in full definition as he holds a bicep curl pose. On his left arm two tiny black kittens perch, one trying to climb his forearm and the other screaming in his face, and his lip curls in a way she knows he was just about to laugh. It’s so him, and the cats are so cute, and at the same time she can’t stop staring at the details. The line where the tan on his neck ends. The way the light casts shadows from his shoulder blades and every knob of his spine. The hint of another scar just at the edge of the photo, one she hasn’t noticed in person before-

“Oh, they’re here?” Kiki strides into the office without knocking, and Shirayuki slams shut the calendar. Kiki sets Shirayuki’s coffee on the desk, sips her own, thankfully does not say a word about Shirayuki’s crimson blush, and leans over to get a look at the Dalmatian on the cover.

“It just arrived in the mail today. Did you order one?” She picks up her coffee, suppressing the urge to hide it under the desk.

“Please.” Kiki flips open the cover, directly to January. “I bought ten.”

[korracrat]

In case CBS is a dick and you can’t watch the performance in your country or you really wanted a better idea of the staging,

You’re welcome!

[sorcerersofnyc]

The Last Thing Left (Zemo x F!Reader) 2/9

If it wasn’t so painfully ironic (and hilarious to watch,) Helmut would find the relationship between Sam and James a little sad.

Ghosts weren’t enough to hold two people together.

Chapter 2: While they wait for Torres to locate Donya Madani, Zemo brings Sam and Bucky to the home you shared.

Slow burn, previous relationships, angst, various mentions of death & mourning. You both lost your spouse. You're a regular civilian person. Zemo's wife's name is Heike because of comics. The reader likes waffles (this is a non-negotiable fact)

Did I set this whole story in Spain because of Daniel Brühl? Yes, I did. The most impactful dialog has been translated.

Note: Main Character is neutral in most regards but the story was written with my own cultural background in mind. (In other words, I won't say what she looks like but I envision her as being black.)

First Chapter | Previous

***

The plane lands mid-morning near the Bay of Biscay.

Thin clouds give form to the blue sky above them, gathering to shield the world from the worst of the heat. It’s a lovely day , Helmut thinks, even as the smell of jet fuel lingers pungently in the air.

As he drapes his coat across his forearm and Sam and James stretch their limbs. But as a middle-aged woman struts. across the airfield to greet them, they’re attentive, alert.

“¡Hola señor. Es bueno verte otra vez.” She gives Helmut’s hand a gentle squeeze, her voice heavy with relief.

“Hola vieja amiga. ¿Recibiste los artículos que pedí?”

“Sí Sí. Las flores y los gofe se enviaban antes de su llegada.” She nods and sends a knowing glance his way before adding, “Y tu coche te está esperando.”

“Muchas gracias,” Helmut replies.

The woman takes a step back to acknowledge his company. Sam gives the woman a polite smile and James acknowledges her presence with a nod.

“There’s a car waiting for us,” Helmut tells them. “Come with me.”

“Man, how many people work for you anyway?” Sam asks, looking back at the plane, watching as Oeznik descends the stairwell and the woman waves over the maintenance crew.

“Very few really,” Helmut says. James scoffs at his reply.

But true to his word, a car waits on the street; a dark classic model, freshly polished with wide leather seats.

“Gentleman,” Helmut gestures toward the car you sent, “our carriage awaits.”

It was hardly discreet, but that was the point.

You did exactly as he asked.

***

When he promised to take care of you, you rejected out of a sense of humility. Humility, however, could not ensure your survival, let alone your well-being.

Simply put, you had nowhere else to go. The long shadows cast by the sunset cast over your face, highlighting all of your tired, tear-streaked features. But when you looked at him, there was recognition in your gaze, an acknowledgment of the grief that sat between you like a weight.

“I… I appreciate it, thank you.” You sniffed, “And I… I’ll be there for you too.”

He guided you away from your husband’s grave a moment later, vowing he would find you a better tomorrow.

*

There was no helping Sokovia; war and dissension plagued its streets long before Ultron. So Helmut gathered what he could from the rubble of his father’s home and made arrangements for a jet to be ready at the nearest functioning airport.

The airport was a dome of steel. Its once white titles were scuffed and crowded with people taking shelter and vying for seats on commercial flights.

You were quiet, your eyes glued to the broadcast showing on nearly every TV. There was a video playing, some newly uncovered camera footage of Novi Grad being lifted in the air.

“Come on,” he told you, leading you away with his hand upon your shoulder. You didn’t have much, not physically, just a duffle of what you salvaged from your home and the letter Dominik carried.

Oeznik was waiting in front of the plane, and it relieved Helmut to see him. His faithful butler had been on vacation in Belgium with his family, but once he saw what became of Novi Grad, he came back early.

“It’s glad to see you in good health, Sir.” He said.

“Thank you, Old Friend.”

They kissed cheeks and Helmut escorted you inside the plane, which carried the distinctive smell of cleaning supplies though neither said a word about it.

It wasn’t until you reached the cloudless blue sky that you spoke of what you saw.

“I was in the city that day,” you told him. “I was saved but… I don’t remember how I reached the boat to the helicarrier.” Confusion colored your expression, entangled with sorrow and relief.

Your eyes met his and flickered away just as quickly as guilt—survivors’ guilt—overtook you. He’s seen that look on far too many times on the faces of the soldiers he commanded not to know what that look was. “It happened so suddenly,” You continued, “I was on the ground and then… I was there. It was like someone picked me up and… I was just...there, on the boat with the others.”

“You were rescued by one of the Avengers?” Helmut leaned forward in his seat. “Thor maybe?”

“It must have been, but I don’t recall him being capable of such a thing.” You looked down at your feet.

“We didn’t think them capable of many things.” If there was an edge to his voice, you didn’t seem to notice or care. He continued. “The very idea of the Avengers has always been troubling; they’ve become idols, icons, something more than human. We are meant to forget their flaws and the destruction left in their wake. Remember New York? London? Washington D.C? Did we not watch the Hulk rampage through Johannesburg mere days before Sokovia was destroyed? It was always a mistake, allowing them to act freely.”

You looked at him then, your head tilted to the side in contemplation, taking in all he had to say.

“Has anyone said where Ultron came from yet? No one seems to know if he is an alien or some sort of rogue government experiment.”

“No. But one thing is clear; so long as the Avengers exist, someone will rise to challenge them; They will fight, and Sokovia will not be the last place they bring to ruin.”

You nodded, consciously or not he didn’t know, but on some level, you agreed.

***

Helmut’s thoughts are interrupted when the car turns onto a street lined with elegant townhomes with low-pitched roofs.

James breaks the silence that settled between the three.

“Where are we going?”

“My home.” He announces as the car stops before a large house made of grand arched windows and a sand-colored stone.

“Is this where you lived when you were plotting against us?” Sam sends him an incredulous look, as though the idea of stepping into his home offended him somehow.

“My home in Sokovia was destroyed, Sam. I needed to live somewhere—but yes,” Helmut shrugs, “you’re exactly right.”

“Oh great,” James mutters, but Helmut pays him little mind.

Two columns embrace the grand archway that sits above the ornately carved wooden door.

Upon it he knocks loudly, ignoring the questioning looks he gains.

He waits.

The air is dry and his attention drifts toward a fallen leaf on the pavement; it’s deep green and browning at the edges, its middle eaten through by an insect. The leaf skitters away when the door flies open and he’s forced to confront his worry.

He looks at you. You stare at him in disbelief. The world falls away into nothing.

“Helmut,” you finally say, breathing his name out in relief. “Estás de vuelta.” You’re back.

Your hands are trembling as they reach for him, as your thumbs brush across the curve of his cheek.

For so long your face was but a fragmented memory, your voice the chorus of a song. Only now, as you stand before him, are you complete. You smile.

“Sí, estoy en casa ahora mi amiga.” Yes, I’m home now my friend.

He touches his hand to your own, basking in the simple joy of your touch.

But then you glance behind him, your eyes narrow and the moment ends.

“Helmut! “You hiss. “¿Has traído a los Avengers a mi casa? ¡Por qué!”

Sam and James exchange glances. Whether either spoke Spanish is a matter of speculation, but they surely recognized the name of their allies.

“I’ll explain everything once we settle in.” He raises his palms in surrender to you, looking for all the world like a man abdicating his control.

You don’t move.

“I would like to see the paintings you mentioned in your letters.”

Your scowl deepens, your stare sharpening to a knifes-edge.

“I promise to have a good explanation.”

Finally, you step aside, ‘come in’ you say, and Helmut leads Sam and James further inside. The two have been quiet so far, observant of their new surroundings. He can’t be sure what they assume is happening, but Sam thanks you as he passes. James nods but says nothing.

The house is just as lovely as he remembers it to be; tall white walls, polished tile, an overabundance of lamps, and a painting on every wall. He never agreed with your sense of design but the home was undoubtedly welcoming.

“Make yourself at home,” you lead them inside, into the parlor where a fresh bouquet of thick-stemmed roses sits in a vase beside the entryway.

The rest of the room is familiar to him; red cushioned seats and glass-top tables, and rugs that sit just so beside the bookcase.

He briefly wonders where Anežka, your young housekeeper, is. The paper cranes she’s so fond of sit artfully on the shelves but there’s no evidence of her presence there.

You must have given her leave in anticipation of your meeting, he reasons.

You wanted to be alone with him.

His heart swells at the thought of what you might have done together.

Unfortunately, he sighs, Helmut isn’t alone with you. So instead of the immeasurable amount of fun his mind conjured, he watches you look between your guests—Sam, then James, then Sam again.

“I believe introductions are in order,” He finally announces, draping his coat across the back of his favorite chair.

“Yeah. That would be nice,” Sam retorts. He lingers near the entryway, unsure of the space. “Is this really your house?”

“It is. Well, it was. It now belongs to my lovely associate, gifted to her before I left on my mission.”

“Your mission,” James scoffs. He leans back against the wall near the bookcase, fixing him with a heavy stare.

You skirt the moving to stand at Helmut’s side as you wait for his promised explanation.

“Sam, James,” He calls for their attention, “This is my partner,” he tells them, introducing you by name.

***

Thanks for Reading!

I debated the ending for quite a while. It changes the initial trajectory of the story but it provides for a dramatic ending. Next time, we'll see how your relationship with Zemo changed from persons with mutual friends to 'partners.'

There's a deleted scene that I'll post as a special chapter soon!

Taglist:

@actuallyanita

@fillechatoyante!

Previous | Next

[mst3kproject]

The Neanderthal Man

Since I'm taking a break from fishmen, I might as well let Bigfoot catch up a bit.  The Neanderthal Man isn't exactly a Bigfoot movie, but it’s along the same lines and its entire starring cast has MST3K pedigrees.  Robert Shayne was in Indestructible Man and Teenage Caveman. Richard Crane was Rocky Jones, Space Ranger! Beverly Garland was in Swamp Diamonds and Gunslinger. Even the composer, Albert Glasser, wrote music for Invasion USA, Last of the Wild Horses, and almost all of MST3K’s Bert I. Gordon movies.

Some little mountain town in the middle of the Sierras (which the Portentous 50's Narrator takes some trouble to tell us is a primeval place where 'the defacing hand of civilization has fallen but lightly') is having a rash of saber-toothed tiger sightings!  At first these are laughed off, but when the game warden himself sees one cross the road in the middle of the night, it's time to do something about it.  The warden shows a cast pawprint to Dr. Ross Harkness in Los Angeles, who is interested enough to come up and see for himself. Local Mad Scientist Dr. Groves pooh-poohs the whole thing, which is enough to tell me that we're not dealing with a local cryptid here.  Somebody is making prehistoric monsters.

So... I may not have actually run out of movies, but I seem to be running out of plots, because this is a remarkably similar movie to Monster on the Campus. The major difference between the two films is that Dr. Blake turned himself into a caveman by accident, while Dr. Groves here is doing it on purpose.

Another difference is that Monster on the Campus' story, while silly, was linear – events escalated in a way that felt logical, and there were reasons why things happened when and where they did.  By contrast, The Neanderthal Man feels like a first draft.  At the beginning of the film, we're dealing with the saber-toothed tigers that Groves has been creating by injecting cats with his de-evolution serum.  We hear about these slaughtering game and livestock, and it seems like only a matter of time before they move on to human beings.  The beginning of the film is quite upfront about the fact that Groves is responsible, too, as it is only mildly mysterious in its depiction of one of the creatures escaping his lab.

Sometimes the saber-tooths are represented by an actual tiger, usually filmed from behind or at a great distance so nobody has to put the prosthetic teeth on it.  They do have prosthetic teeth, but they're only visible in a couple of shots. Imagine being at a bar and some guy tells you his job is sticking fake fangs on real tigers for a caveman movie!  For close-ups, there's a hilarious puppet head that looks like the sort of thing you'd see mounted on a frat house wall as a joke.  The director had the sense not to linger on this in motion shots, but later we see still photographs Groves has supposedly taken of his experimental subjects and they're even stupider-looking than we imagined.

Anyway, this goes on for a while with rising action, as the game warden goes to get Harkness and they manage to shoot one of the animals, only to have it vanish from the kill site when they try to show it to Groves (the movie never bothers to explain how that happened, incidentally. The ending suggests that the creatures change back when they die, but there's definitely no dead kitty cat at the scene, either).  The whole movie could easily have just had the cats and their creator as the antagonists, perhaps even ending the same way as Dr. Groves proves his work to the other characters by injecting himself. That's not what happens, though.  Instead, the story mostly forgets about the cats one we find out Groves has also been carrying on human experiments.

(Before himself, Groves' first experimental subject was his disabled Latina housekeeper.  Another series of photos show her half-transformed into a cavewoman who for some reason is wearing drag queen false eyelashes.  And as long as I'm talking about the movie being gross and bigoted, there's a bit where a woman is violently raped.  This happens off camera, but the audience is not allowed to entertain any illusions about it.)

The problem is that before we see him give himself an injection in the arm, we have had absolutely no indication that Groves has been giving his serum to anything besides the cats! Cats are stealthy, cryptic creatures and if one of those has been seen wandering around killing things, then surely a full-on caveman beating people to death would not be able to stay out of sight!  If what we were seeing were the first time Groves had tried the formula on himself then that would be an explanation, but his notes reveal that he's been doing it for so long that he's on the verge of losing control of the transformation and permanently reverting to a pre-human status, as indeed he does for the climax.  Much like the stupid dinosaur in The Beast of Hollow Mountain, the movie's main monster is given no build-up whatsoever!

There's worse yet, though.  The main characters, Dr. Harkness and Groves' daughter Jan, are barely involved in the 'caveman' part of the plot. They get phone calls about the various murders that Groves is committing in caveman form, and they snoop around the lab to figure out things the audience already knows.  The same story could have been told without them, perhaps with the game warden and the hunter as protagonists, and it would probably have been more interesting. The script also repeatedly has Dr. Groves wander in and bluster about how the tiger sightings are hallucinations and tall tales, which seems a little unnecessary when we already know he's responsible. The film-makers can't seem to decide whether they want us to know that or not.

Dr. Groves wears glasses.  Maybe the reason his primitive alter-ego is angry and breaking shit (although it does politely open and close the window it climbs out of, which made me laugh) is because it can't see. This is also my theory about why the Hulk smashes, and what do you know?  In Avengers Endgame he's got Hulk-sized spectacles and only smashes when he's told!

The direction of The Neanderthal Man can probably best be described as 'serviceable'.  It shows us what's going on, but doesn't particularly add anything to the proceedings.  The 'Neanderthal' mask is immobile and uninteresting, not much better than somebody's Party City Sasquatch costume.  Even the eyes are just painted on, meaning the poor guy in the costume can’t do much because he can’t see where he’s going.

The dialogue is often very strange, with characters talking like they're in a Jules Verne novel. If only one person did this, it might seem like a character quirk – it works for Dr. Groves, for example – but it's everybody. Seeing the cat carcass is gone, Harkness declares, “I refuse to believe in the supernatural!  There must be some logical cause and effect to this unholy adventure!”  Groves' fiancee Ruth berates him for ignoring her, saying, “I want you, the man I once knew!  The good companion, the cheerful friend.  I want the happiness we once found in each other.”  It's bizarre to listen to, and often audibly awkward for the actors.

Monster on the Campus was kind of trying to be about how humanity must choose to evolve away from our inner savage, although the finale didn't bear that out.  There's a scene in The Neanderthal Man in which this movie seems to be trying to go in the opposite direction, saying that we were never savage to begin with.  Dr. Groves is speaking to a panel of scientists about the size of the brain in various 'primitive' species of human.  He points out that by the time we reached Homo erectus we were already working with four times the cerebral jelly of a chimpanzee, and argues that our ancestors would have been recognizably human in their behaviour and problem-solving capacity.

(Amusingly, his chart of human evolution includes Piltdown Man, which was proven to be a hoax literally a few months after this movie's release.  What makes this even more tragic for the writers is that their list of primitive humans seems to be the only place where they actually did any research.)

The problem with Dr. Groves' theory is that he already knows it's wrong. We soon learn that he's been experimenting on himself with his serum for a while already, and his notes show that he knows very well he regresses into a near-mindless animal.  The movie does not even try to reconcile these ideas.  If Groves were continuing his experiments in the hope that perfecting his serum would give him a more accurate reconstruction of ancient man, that would be one thing, but the script never goes there.

So now that we've had two 'man turns into caveman by injecting science juice' movies, of course I have to ask which one is better.  Monster on the Campus wasn't a good movie but it was definitely an improvement on The Neanderthal Man in several respects, and although I don't have any way to find out for certain, I suspect it was an intentional remake.  It's definitely more entertaining and gets bonus points for including the Meganeura dragonfly, but nothing in it is nearly as funny as The Neanderthal Man's fake tiger head.  I guess if you're gonna watch one or the other, stick to Monster on the Campus, but if you're gonna watch both, start with The Neanderthal Man and do them in chronological order, the better to spot the inspirations and references.

Before I go, a fun paleontology fact: current thinking is that the saber-toothed cat's eponymous fangs actually didn't show when it had its mouth closed!  There are zero cave paintings or ancient sculptures of a saber-tooth cat with teeth visible, and when scientists looked at the structure of the enamel in the canines, it suggested that in life the teeth were hidden by big, fleshy, St Bernard jowls.  Google 'smilodon lips' and behold how this looks fully three hundred percent more ridiculous than you're imagining.  I love nature.

[kashimos-hajime]

happiness is a warm gun | a.h.

summary: American author John Steinbeck wrote, “I got you to look after me, and you got me to look after you, and that's why.” 

WARNINGS: swearing, stressed hotch, fire, explosions, hospitals, tender ending, general banter, they geek about the beatles a bit, angst, kidnapping situations and implications of past sexual assault pairing: aaron hotchner x fem!reader word count: 9.6k but we knew it’d get long at some point

a/n: hope you enjoy darlings :^) 

SERIES MASTERLIST

[7:23 AM]

“And if there’s anything…” Hotch trails off and your father nods. After last night, he had promised to stop by in the morning just in case there were any updates, but there weren’t any.

Listening to the voicemail you left, he couldn’t have imagined anything was ever wrong with you.

But there is, and you’re gone, and Hotch did not sleep for a fucking second last night. Haley had done her best, but even she had paced until she was exhausted and laid beside him, staring up at the ceiling.

“First Darren, now…” She couldn’t bring herself to continue and Hotch merely took her into his arms and held her tight. “Tessa’s going to need us if this doesn’t turn out the way we want it to, Aaron.”

“I know.”

“No,” your father says presently, shaking his head. Tessa’s awake in the kitchen, mixing an already finished pancake batter just to give her something to do while her grandfather talks to Hotch and the latter can hear her singing along to the radio with a painful twinge. She has no idea. “Just… do your best to find her.”

“I will,” he promises before turning to head back to his car.

He wants to throw up with how false his lie sounded, but he doesn’t. JJ has her press conference later in the morning and if he wants to be there, he can’t lose focus.

He drives too fast to Quantico that he almost gets ticketed until he flashes his badge at the officer who flagged him.

[12:22 PM]

Randall Garner. Randall Garner.

You stuff the newspaper clipping underneath your thigh and lick the ink off your lips. The scrap had been hard to pinch with just your teeth and the strange craning of your neck, but you’d managed to drop it into your lap just as the red light of the camera turns on again.

The voice of Randall Garner crackles over the intercom.

“Your knights have broken my sacred rule. Did you know this?”

“Of course not,” you reply calmly, not even bothering to ask what the rule is. “I’ve been with you the whole time, haven’t I? I’ve had no way to contact them.”

“You will. I am sorry, Queen Guinevere, but lunch must be stalled. Prepare yourself. I will have a task for you to complete once I return. Your choice will affect their quest. It will be... a true test for your love for your family.”

With that, the red light flickers off, and so do the ceiling chandeliers.

Darkness shadows you on all sides and you close your eyes, leaning back and taking a deep breath. Your shoulders have begun to ache and the nauseating ball of tension in your gut is about to explode.

But you’re fine.

You take another deep breath.

You’re fine.

[3:43 PM]

Hotch remembers the last time you went missing.

He would’ve killed everyone in his path, if they gave up, just to find you, dead or alive. He didn’t care whether or not you would’ve berated him for committing a crime, told him he was being an idiot. You would’ve understood the gripping fear, the paralyzing toxin in his body, the haunting days in the hospital, the terrible months afterwards. The urge to kill the faceless man who’d wronged and robbed you.

The last time you went missing, parts of you did not come back with you, and all he can think of is you, alone in some desolate place with the psychotic unsub who has already killed two men.

Unrepentant, bad men, but humans nonetheless and the break in the unsub’s one rule could lead to him devolving—

The worst days of his life are defined by that period, that week in the spring of junior year.

For four solid days, you were gone, and for months after you were found, you remained a broken mess and his hands were struggling to keep every piece of you together. But he only had two hands and pieces slipped, things were lost.

God, his whole world had stopped and started with you.

If you had been found in any worse state than the police had found you…

Hotch doesn’t want to think about it until he’s forced to in his nightmares.

This…

This feels like a nightmare.

Elle still in surgery, he sits there before the parcel, looking up at Gideon who sits across from him before nodding to himself. It’s a small thing, neatly wrapped with creased folds and sharp corners, and he frowns, pulling on a pair of evidence gloves.

It reminds him of the way you wrap your gifts.

He carefully tears apart the wrapping. Within is a DVD stack case which he cracks open carefully to reveal stacks of silver discs with sharpie in different writing than the first blood messages and he looks up at Jason. Each one is inscribed with a number or word spelt in bold black.

ONE. SEVEN. TWO. WISCONSIN. PENNSYLVANIA. 18TH. BROADWAY.

And more and more. Hours of footage entrapped in these discs.

“Different hand?”

Hotch nods, tongue thick in his mouth because your hands must’ve folded the parcel, too. “It’s Y/N’s.”

Jason stares, the muscles in his face twitching and although Hotch knows everything is complicated between you and the man before him, he also knows that Jason cares about you, too. It used to be you, Hotch, and him.

Now, it’s a fractured picture.

“You said she was missing?”

“Her father hasn’t seen her since… two days ago now,” he confirms.

“And you’re sure it’s her writing?”

“We can bring up samples, but Gideon… I know her.” Hotch sets down the DVD, feeling sweat press between latex and skin as he rips off the gloves and stands, his mind a chaotic storm. Your writing, your writing. The unsub has you. That’s your writing. The unsub has you. Taken again. Missing—

Without thinking, his hand runs through his hair like it did when he was younger and when his hair was just a bit longer.

“You know I could’ve told you whether or not it was cool to mess up your hair because, if you recall, I am a girl, too.” Your voice nips at the shell of his ear and he turns around, half-expecting to see you there at the door, smiling fully, arms crossed and eyebrows raised.

You aren’t. You aren’t and Hotch feels something inside him… crack.

Gideon simply presses his palms together, knowing, perhaps more than Hotch himself, the Unit Chief’s thought process with the newest revelation. “I’ll call the team.”

He does call the team to update them. Morgan and JJ are questioning Rebecca Bryant’s parents, but Garcia and Reid make their way to the waiting room in the hospital, the former bringing one of her computers to hookup to the TV the staff provide them.

The first DVD (ONE) is inserted as Hotch explains the arrival of the package.

“And we didn’t see it delivered?” Reid asks, bewildered. “Should we check the security feed—”

“Odds are it was another person paid off to deliver,” Hotch murmurs, crooked fingers brushing underneath his chin, the other arm crossed over his chest, and it is left at that.

The explanation of the writing being different and the identity of the writer is noticeably left absent, but Hotch knows that Reid’s noticed. The youngest member’s eyes keep darting from the discs to his leader and he finally looks at the brunet, shaking his head. Don’t cause panic until we know.

“Garcia, anything?”

“Working on it, sir.”

The screen is black for a moment and there is doubt that it actually is a video but there is the faint rustling of things moving coming from the speakers, distorted and pitched low.

“Can you speed it up?”

“Already working on it, but there’s hours of footage with every disc. It’s going to take a long time and there might not even be anything on it,” Garcia murmurs. “This could all be scrap footage.”

“There has to be a faster way,” Gideon says and Hotch shoves his hands into his pockets, feeling his notepad jam against his thumb.

“Remember, everything starts at the beginning.”

Beginning. Everything this unsub does is intentional—a hint. There has to be reason he said that—  

“I just got a voicemail from her that she’ll be a few more days and she asked me about… Tessa and school.”

School.

“In the Vulgate Moir le roi Artu, the Death of King Arthur, King Arthur’s death is indirectly caused by the infidelity between Queen Guinevere and Lancelot, one of the Knights of the Round Table. The Queen was sentenced to burn at the stake for her crime and Lancelot saved her before it happened. It was… uh, part of my mother’s curriculum for years.”

Lancelot. Lancelot, school, beginning, curriculum. No, something doesn’t make sense—

Hotch’s brain turns itself over and he quickly barks at Garcia to eject the DVD, grabbing the stack and spreading them out quickly as he goes over it again.

Lancelot. School. Beginning. Tessa? Round table, no, that doesn’t make sense. Tessa. Tessa, she’s just a kid— Hotch cuts off that line of thought before he can entertain the idea of the wittiest six-year old goddaughter he knows becoming an orphan in such rapid succession when it’s like the world illuminates. Kid.

Childhood. Beginning.

“Letters,” Reid murmurs under his breath. “Some of them have letters. Words…”

“But it’s not the whole alphabet,” Garcia observes and Aaron spreads out the discs across the coffee table, swiping magazines off and stepping back, trying to make the connection. “And there are repeats of some numbers.”

“It’s a message—it says something. Something only Lancelot knows,” Hotch explains shortly, eyes darting from one silver disc to the next.

Beginning. Beginning, school, beginning.

“Remember, everything starts at the beginning.”

His fingers get jabbed by the sharp edges of the discs as he grabs at them, moving them around and aligning them as he works. He doesn’t care about the eyes on his head as he tries to think, moves things around. A ticking time bomb occupies his chest, a heavy metal weight that bears down on his ribs as he crouches and grabs the numbers, grouping them up.

“What do you think it is?”

With absolute certainty, Hotch looks up at Gideon because he knows your file and if this unsub did read the file then he’ll know that only Hotch knows where your childhood home is—a home that is in your name, now that your mother has passed.

“It’s an address.” He rearranges the discs into the address of your old childhood home. He moves aside the discs not needed and hands the first one to Garcia.

“Is there a specific timestamp, sir?”

Hotch pauses, staring at Garcia and trying to think. His entire body is in limbo, his blood is congealed, and the fire in his chest has spread into an uncontrollable inferno of frustration that he can’t see your file in his head—

Why should he need to? He knows you.

Pulling out his notepad, he flips to a fresh page and starts scribbling down potential dates. 1993, the year you got married. 1971, your birth date. 1999, Tessa’s birth year.

“Remember, everything starts at the beginning.”

He crosses each one out jerkingly. It’s about them. Not you as a singular but you and Aaron Hotchner together, and if he, distantly, recalls correctly, the monthly newsletter was sent home by the school, no doubt now on the school’s database as digital copies, as well as all the old yearbook photos of notable importance.

Including the library club.

“1980,” he announces, pressing on before Reid can correct him that there’s only sixty seconds in a minute, “Try nine minutes.”

Garcia does so, pulling the footage to the ninth minute when there is a distinct shift from the black shifting to silence, and then it’s as if they’re in the same room as the first disc. The same desk, same background. The unsub sits in the chair, shrouded in shadow and his voice is tinted with anger, frustration.

“I had hoped, Lancelot, that you would obey. After all, another hint was to show on your doorstep on your quest for the Holy Grail.” Garcia’s eyes widen. “By now, I assume you have found Agent Greenaway. I repeat again, she did not have to die like that. It was a matter of following what I had laid down for you, but there must be consequences.”

With that, the clip ends.

“Can you cut and paste the clips together?” inquires Hotch, a cold wave replacing blood in his veins. “I don’t care how choppy it is. As long as it’s comprehensible.”

“Y-yes, sir.”

“Good, get on it. We’ll meet up again at the bureau when you’ve got it.” Writing down the address just in case the order of fotage gets lost, Hotch rips off the paper and hands it to Reid as Gideon stacks up the discs.

Garcia and Reid look at one another before the latter moves to bag the DVD case in an evidence bag and Hotch waits for them to go before running his hands over his face.

“All we need is an address,” Gideon mutters, staring at the blank screen emptily. “Hotch. It’s not your fault. No one else could’ve known what the DVDs meant. No one could’ve recognized she was missing sooner.”

Hotch does not tell his old friend that he could’ve.

[5:58 PM]

Garcia calls Hotch to the office once it’s completed and the drive cannot pass by soon enough before he’s walking into the bullpen. His eyes stray to find a few agents still working in the office, but most are out. The team’s desks are empty and, as if pulled by a magnetic force, his eyes land on your desk and that deserted coffee cup.

It’s like something scoops his soul out.

Missing.

“What do you have, Garcia?” he says, entering the conference room. Reid and Garcia turn around at his entrance before resuming their tasks and the latter clicks on her trackpad. JJ and Morgan both nod and Hotch barely registers that another blonde is in there but he can distantly hear Reid say it’s his mom.

“Here’re the clips strung together. It might skip between bits of footage but I tried my best.”

With that, the blonde analyst presses play and the three agents watch as the clip starts in the first room with the unsub at the desk.

“I had hoped, Lancelot, that you would obey. After all, another hint was to show on your doorstep on your quest for the Holy Grail. By now, I assume you have found Agent Greenaway. I repeat again, she did not have to die like that. It was a matter of following what I had laid down for you, but there must be consequences.

“The Queen Guinevere is having difficulty staying awake. It is… such a bore for her here without her king or her knight.”

The footage switches to another point of view. A silhouette of stocky, long legs treading becomes clearer as it reaches light and there’s a quiet groan. The unsub is carrying the camera down a long hallway, the wood creaking beneath his steps.

“As you can see, Lancelot, your Guinevere is in… quite a bit of pain as well.” The camera finally rises to reveal you sitting in a chair. You’re entirely in soft shadow and warm light, in your clothes but barefoot.

Your feet are bound to the legs of the bergère, your head bowed as if asleep. The light just barely catches half of your face. On your cheek is a blossoming bruise and your shoulders are drawn back by your arms tied around the back of the upholstery. Warm orange flickers around you and there is a sheen of sweat along your neck as you raise your head wearily.

“The consequences,” continues the voice-over, “must be severe. But I know you, Lancelot. I understand you. The death of one of your knights would not be enough to deter you from breaking such a simple rule. Death does not scare you. Losing her does.”

You raise your head as the unsub approaches you. It is then he can see the blood, the unfocused glaze in your eyes. You look barely conscious, and Hotch’s fists tighten, his nails digging into his flesh. His jaw clicks but he doesn’t look away, scanning the footage for clues of your location.

Beside you is a stack of books and atop that, a deserted teacup. When your head lolls, he can see the glistening trail of liquid from your lips down your chin.

“Aaron.” His name slips shakily from your lips and Hotch feels every muscle in him tighten. “Aaron, listen to me.” Despite the trembling from weakness, you sound strong and resolute. You don’t show an ounce of fear as you lift your head even though it looks like it weighs a thousand tonnes. “Aaron, he said I can only talk to you specifically—”

“Do not break my rule again, or she will burn like the rest for certain. All you will find is charred remains,” the unsub whispers behind the camera, rasping and harsh, and there is the click of a lighter. There is movement and your eyes widen as you begin to try and rip yourself free. “You have only a few hours. After all, fire catches… whether you like it or not. By this time tomorrow, you will have failed them both.”

“Winston,” you murmur, the camera coming closer but not close enough to truly pick up the audio. Hotch steps closer to the screen as Garcia pumps up the volume. “It’s Winston. Let me talk to him, please.”

“Goodbye.” The camera begins to draw away and your eyes widen.

“No, come back! You said I could talk to him! No!” Your shouts, panicked and whining, are like butcher knives that cleave through his skin. “No! Aaron! No—Aaron, GARNER!” Thrashing against the manacles as the unsub turns the camera away, he hears your voice still, a screech, a terrible song. The camera swings away from you to reveal the feet of the unsub, walking away. Your voice is no less loud, no less tearing. “RANDALL GARNER AND WINSTON! WINSTON DR—”

It cuts off and there is a startling silence when the team has their eyes only on their leader. Hotch stares hollowly at the screen. He hears your voice, screaming, bouncing like an echo chamber.

No one says anything about the final implication that you are Guinevere and he, Lancelot.

Then, Reid, bravely, breaks the silence: “Hotch—”

“Randall Garner is Rebecca Bryant’s biological father,” Garcia says.

“And Winston?” he can hear himself say but he can’t feel his mouth form the words as he turns to look at the team that’s still here. They all look at him with some degree of worry but his demeanour silences them: Work the case.

“Nothing about Winston, sir.”

“I rechecked all the clues,” Reid says, sitting down, “but nothing points to an address.” He looks incredibly muted after the video and Hotch is sure everyone’s mind is on your screams as JJ shifts in her seat.

“The adoption records for Rebecca listed an address of the fire, so I made a call to Nevada, and it's vacant. No one ever rebuilt.”

Crossing his arms, Hotch barely holds back the icy tone in his voice. “Nevada? So we don't even know what state he's in?”

“I'll search the tax records, see if he owns any property.”

“Excuse me,” Reid’s mother begins and Hotch looks at her. He almost forgot she’s here. All he can hear is your screaming—“Just before the agents got me from the hospital, a man delivered this to me. It’s a photo of a house with a number and word on the back.”

“1024 Shiloh,” Morgan reads aloud, taking the photo. “An address?”

“Yeah, but without a street, we won’t get too far,” points out Garcia. “I can run addresses that are 1024 Shiloh but it’s probably a city.”

“Shiloh, Illinois?”

“Nothing points to that. Y/N said Winston, didn’t she? What if that’s the street?” Reid proposes. “In Shiloh, Virginia, Winston Drive is a road that runs into the more rural countryside outside the community. There’s—there’s a bunch of old houses because the land is never used for development.”

“It’s our best option. It’s close, ten miles from here, and in the same state as Giles.”

“It makes the most sense,” Reid agrees and the team looks to Hotch. “Garcia could try to pull up—”

“Already on it. 1024 Winston Drive, Shiloh, Virginia, coming up on the screen now.”

The TV screen flickers from the video to the image of the same house on Diana Reid’s photo and Hotch’s jaw sets. You’re either there or the unsub there. Hopefully it’s both, and with any luck…

The team springs into action as Hotch walks out of the conference room. JJ makes the call to request a SWAT team and Garcia calls that she’ll send the address to his GPS ASAP.

Everything leads back to Randall Garner. The kidnapped child, Reid’s mother, you.

Everything.

[6:37 PM]

As the team and SWAT swarm the medieval-like mansion, Hotch can’t help the apprehensive nausea in his stomach. There’s always a chance that you aren’t here and he’ll be too late.

The first floor is so quiet he could’ve heard someone else’s heartbeat if it weren’t for the sounds of their footsteps. Sweeping through, he is confronted with empty room and after empty room.

“Hotch, we found Y/N’s badge.” Morgan’s voice comes clear in his earpiece and Hotch, gun tight in his hands, turns back because this room is empty, too. “Any sight on her?”

“No.”

“There’s someone upstairs,” Reid whispers and Hotch nods to his SWAT partner, meeting up with Morgan at the base of the flight. Morgan ascends first, whispering to Reid before continuing up and Hotch reaffirms his grip on his Glock, waiting at the base.

“Randall Garner? FBI!”

Absolute silence.

Morgan gives the signal to continue up and the SWAT team moves up and the agents reach the landing, sweeping left and right. Hotch murmurs he’ll take the left flank and the team splits up, Hotch taking only two SWAT officers with him to sweep the second landing. There is a short hallway filled with doors. The walls are a pale green, light fixtures providing a yellow-white light, and with the amount of doors, it’s hard to understand how many people could’ve lived in this place.

They progress through slowly, flashlights raking through shadows.

If he finds your dead body in one of these rooms, behind a dark wood door—

The door hinges whine when they open. Hotch thinks that’s why he might’ve missed it but his heart is beating so loudly in his ears that everything seems amplified.

There is a distant thud that harmonizes with a splintering, high-pitched shatter, destroying the haunting silence of the old mansion, and Hotch tilts his head to the first SWAT member towards the door at the end of the hall. Opening the door to a long narrow hallway, the three men round corners, keeping their guns at the ready and checking each room for the source of the sound.

“Do you have eyes on Garner?” Hotch asks, reaching the final door at the end of the corridor.

“Yeah. Reid’s talking to him.”

They stop before the door, shuffle on either side.

The SWAT member reaches for the door and with a silent but somehow heard count of three, twists it open. The other SWAT member that had filed in behind Hotch immediately bursts into the room, but it’s not dark like the others. No, as Hotch enters, he can already see the immediate difference. The chandelier hangings are lit with lightbulbs, the walls are a dark red, and the lamps are on. In the air is the faint, lingering aroma of chicken mixed with dust and the aroma of chamomile tea.

“Aaron?”

And, of course, one thing sets this room apart from the rest.

Before a tumbled stack of hardcover books and shards of what Hotch can only guess was the teacup, sits a figure. SWAT crouches by you, boots having crunched over the broken remains of the teacup and he does the same, squatting down before you. He reaches to take your pulse, his other hand holstering his pistol.

“Heard me, did you?” you rasp as the officers fit the jaws of their miniature bolt cutters into the chains and begin to cut. “Aaron…”

“You’re…” He doesn’t want to say safe, or okay, or anything like that, so he simply lets the sentence fade and examines your injuries. The cheek has turned into a ghastly purple and your eyes are squinting, as if you can’t see him quite clearly enough. The chains fall away and you pull your arms forward with a terrible wince, moving your feet experimentally.

“Morgan,” he says into his wrist, “we got her. Get back to him,” he adds to the officers. “I can handle it from here.” They nod. He stands again, carefully kicking away the shards of glass and books out of the way. The upholstered chair groans when you stand, putting all your weight on the furniture before you take a tentative step towards him.

“I can walk,” you say without a shred of doubt and he nods. He’s so overcome with relief that you’re not hurt or otherwise that for a fraction of a second, for an infinitesimally small amount of time, his guard slips.

In hindsight, this defense lowering and what follows were not related, but it still takes a moment for Hotch to react and in that time, you react faster. The walls just begin to break before you’re barreled into him, tackling him to the ground.

The entire earth shakes.

Ears popped, he lands hard, you beside him and he instinctively rolls over, covering you with his body as dust and plaster spring into the air. The explosion is deafening, rattling in his skull louder and louder as bits of wall rain down on them.

Then you’re shimmying out from under him and on your unsteady feet again, pulling him up. Hotch glances at the wall where it used to be and finds it consumed with fire, spreading hungrily along the floors and red walls and he can’t hear a fucking thing as he gets up. Your face is stone as you grab at him desperately.

“Go!” He thinks your lips form the word as you run out of the room and stumble, your confidence wavering as you try to drag yourself up. There is only a high-pitched ringing as he skids to a stop before you, grabbing you by the waist and stabilizing you enough to claw your way back up to your feet.

He hoists you to your feet. He speaks into your ear, something he hopes is along the lines of “Can you walk?”

You nod swiftly.

The smell of wood burning fills the air, the smoke rising to the ceiling as you take a few shaky steps, regaining your balance despite how much you must be shaking and you find the steps quickly, pulling away from him with a small stumble. Reid and Morgan are at the top of the stairs and you trip on your feet.

You’re barely saved from falling by the railing by Morgan as you look at your teammates.

“Basement,” you yell over the sound of the fire consuming the house. The flames roar, consuming the bomb materials no doubt, and swells as Reid wipes the sweat out of his eyes. Smoke gathers in a soft cloud above their heads and Hotch grabs your waist, urging you to begin the climb down the steps, but you stubbornly stay by Reid. “She’s in the basement!”

“Come on, Reid. Let’s go.” Slipping past the two, Morgan and Reid run down the steps as SWAT escorts you and Hotch out of the building. Your feet drag with the manacles still around your ankles. You do everything short of collapsing once you reach solid ground again.

“This way—” He tugs your elbow in the right direction and tunes into your footsteps, determined not to lose you. With a glance over his shoulder every few seconds, he leads the way out of the house. The air is breathtakingly cool against his skin, chasing away the sweat that’d begun to gather at his brow and he sucks in a lungful of fresh wind. In the distance, he can hear the distant wail of ambulances and fire trucks.

The heavy smell of smoke has caught onto his shirt and he pulls out the earpiece, letting it drop against his neck before turning around to look at the inferno. Morgan and Reid come out seconds later, the former carrying Rebecca Bryant, the latter holding the skeleton key tight in his hand.

Ambulances arrive first and Morgan jogs over to them, calling to their youngest member, “Reid, let’s get your leg checked out.”

“It’s not bad.. Doesn’t even hurt—”

“Reid. C’mon.”

Hotch surveys the scene, watching as the fire trucks arrive next with the police, and he pulls off the side strap of his vest with a heaved sigh, his gaze sliding over the first responders, Morgan and Reid, and SWAT members who’re all beginning their post-op rituals, but he’s not looking for them.

“Agent Hotchner,” the SWAT leader says as he approaches, distracting Hotch from his search. With his helmet underneath his arm, he extends a gloved hand and Hotch, wiping at his brow, accepts the gesture.

“Owens,” he replies and the man nods before returning back to his squad.

Hotch continues his search. He doesn't have to look far, but he doesn’t expect you to be where you are.

Paces away, you stand too close to the burning door for his liking and he moves to tell you so, to order you to get to a rig, but then you dig your hand into your pocket and extract a small white box. Your head is bowed, staring into what you hold and he’s curious so he keeps his mouth shut for a moment.

He stops beside you and peers at the box. Red corners, white box. Your Marlboro cigs. In your other hand, a simple Bic lighter.

Without a word, you throw the box with enough force through the open house, and then the lighter, and turn away, walking on bare feet through the green grass. You look almost normal with your jeans and jacket, but then he can see the flash of where the manacles are, and he stares at you for a moment.

Then, he turns back to the fire beginning to spread throughout the house, watching as smoke streams out of the blasted windows, the orange flames lick at the sky.

That’s enough fire to last a lifetime.

He walks back to you where you’re standing out of sight of the rest of the team. No one notices you just leaning against the SUV, watching the fire grow just as the firefighters begin to do their jobs.

“Hey,” he says for lack of anything else.

“Hey,” you say quietly. Your arms are crossed over your middle, chin lifted. Strangely, your coolness doesn’t seem to sink into his skin and he wants to hold you so tight you won’t ever leave his sight again, but he doesn’t. 

He doesn’t think he can really move. Everything is cold and stiff, his gut is in knots, his jaw locked.

The explosion rattles his bones still, so he can’t imagine how you feel.

How come he’s so numb?

“I should quit smoking when things get hard,” you finally say. The wind blows and the fires lean into it, following the gusts and the firefighters exclaim their displeasure to each other.

“I think you can do it,” Hotch murmurs absently. He’s more focused on the lush grass, so green even at night despite the destruction just a distance away.

“I don’t think it’s whether I can or not, because I obviously can. I’m not addicted. It just… I don’t know. But… it’s more whether or not I want to, I guess.”

His eyes find your face, illuminated by the moon a bit, and he stares at the bruise on your cheek, the dried blood. He doesn’t know if it’s because he’s so flooded with relief, but it’s one of the few times he’s allowed himself to recognize how utterly beautiful you are. 

Of course, it’s been a fleeting thought, more than a thought when they were younger, and definitely a recurring theme on the day you got married, but now, you stand there before him, looking worse for wear and he can’t even think.

“Do you?” His voice is rough, deeper in his throat than he expected, like he wasn’t really prepared to speak but the question came out anyway. You find his dark eyes, searching them for any trace of mocking, any skepticism, but you won’t find any.

“I don’t know.” You wince when you talk. “Seeing as I threw my full pack of Malboros into that ghastly mess… we’ll see.”

“You could try something other than smoking.” From anyone else, he thinks it might’ve sound patronizing from anyone else who didn’t know him or wasn’t you but you merely offer an empty smile as if to prompt him to continue. He does: “I heard talking to someone really helps.”

“Thank you,” you say softly and Hotch suppresses his own wince at how empty it seems. “I tried widow support groups, therapists. Life is just shit, sometimes.”

“Ma’am,” an EMT interrupts cautiously and Hotch turns around to look at him, “we’ll have to take you to the hospital for a check up, get those”—he gestures at the handcuffs—”off.”

You don’t move at first, and he turns back to you.

“I want you to quit smoking,” he says after a long search. His hand brushes your inflamed cheek and your eyes flutter shut. Then, his thumb pulls away and your gaze finds his.

“I know that.” Your expression is not blank but set with an aching echo of grief. “Darren would’ve wanted that, too.” You push off the SUV and grasp his hand briefly, squeezing as if to say you’ll be okay and heading towards the EMT.

The man drapes you in one of those shock blankets, carefully leading you to the rig but Aaron doesn’t follow. Instead, he walks up to Reid who’s talking about how he’s completely fine. Rebecca Bryant is hoisted into another rig and he makes a mental note to check up on her later.

Your hand had been cold as it slipped in and out of his grasp.

He watches you step into your own ambulance and then tears his gaze away.

.

Everything is a blur. Your body is exhausted, relatively unscathed, but your mind is a fluttering mess. You’re alone for most of it, surrounded by nameless nurses and doctors who check up on you, wipe the blood and grime away. You’d been drugged and dehydrated so they set you up with an I.V. and you can’t help but feel yourself sink into the bed as they get you into your own room.

The explosion…

All you wanted was to save Aaron, save the girl, get that terribly sad voice out of your head.

“It is your duty. You are the soul that will lead them to the Holy Grail.”

The terrible fear that sent you spiralling into him… you don’t know if it helped, but your racing pulse and the fact that Aaron’s heart still beats in his chest gives you comfort, because you had walked the ashes of that building in Boston, tried to identify what bodies you could, and if you had to do that for your best friend—

It fucking kills you to think about.

“If you’re up for visitors,” a nurse says with a smile before she leaves, “just let me know.”

You tell them you are but that you need just five minutes of peace.

“Of course.”

You’re alone again.

How come you’re so numb?

“Did you know that I’m positively enchanted by you, love?”

“I had no idea, Darren.”

The last real words you spoke to him before he went into that building. You should’ve chosen better, chosen something that meant more than just a stupid quip.

Unbidden, a tear slips down your face and you turn your cheek into the pillow, smother it before it burns through your skin.

Explosions are too sudden, too loud. You feel like your ears are still ringing, but they’re not. You feel like you’re sweating from the heat of the flames, but you’re not.

Smoking, playing with fire—maybe one day you’ll be able to control it.

You don’t think it’s in this lifetime.

There’s a soft knock and you elevate the upper half of your bed so you’re partially sitting up, and you plaster on a smile as your dad walks in carrying Tessa, followed by Morgan, JJ, and a grinning Reid.

“Hey, guys,” you greet, embracing your daughter who snuggles up against you immediately.

“Mommy,��� she says frankly, “you smell.” Derek and JJ laugh. Your dad hands over some aloe vera gel to Spencer. You arch a brow in question and barely overhear him say it’s for Reid’s minor burn on his leg and that Aaron had called to tell him.

You’re too occupied with the head on your chest and the way your daughter’s warm heat is nothing like a raging inferno.

“I know, kiddo,” you reply, voice tight as you kiss her hair. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

.

“How did you know it was 1980?” Garcia inquires softly, eyebrows wrinkling together and Hotch looks up at her from where he’d been staring at the floor before his shoe. “Nine is a pretty specific number.”

“We’re childhood friends,” he says. No one on the team really knows just how far the bond between you and him runs. Most account it for so many years together in the BAU and neither of them have ever corrected it, but Hotch doesn’t see the point in not telling Garcia.

“That long?” The surprise is palpable.

“We met when we were eight and it would’ve been the first time we showed up together in the yearbook. 1980. We would have been turning nine.” Hotch’s smile flickers as he turns to look down the hall where your room is. “The unsub was fixated on us. Lancelot and Guinevere.”

Tessa is inside still and you’ve been swarmed by the team since you got in. Haley is outside your door, too, holding onto a sleeping Jack and grinning as she waves through the door farewell, but Hotch stays by the washrooms with Garcia who stares at him, eyes wide.

“Sir—”

“How is she, Garcia?” he cuts off before she can ask the question he knows she wants to ask.

“You should see her. She seems okay but she looks around a lot. I think she’s looking for you,” Garcia inputs softly as Haley comes to her husband.

“She’s tired,” he says just before his wife in hearing range and he pushes off the wall to kiss Haley briefly, hand on the back of Jack’s head. “Hey, sweet boy.”

“Sweet boy is fast asleep, honey,” Haley says, amused. “Hi, Penelope.”

“Hi, Mrs. Hotchner,” the analyst murmurs, excusing herself to head to your room.

Haley’s eyes are wide with sympathy and her mouth is curled into one of those smiles that makes him believe every word she says as she rubs his arm. “She’s okay, Aaron. She’s up and talking, reading a story to Tessa. The doctor says she’s completely fine. I think they’re leaving soon, though.”

“JJ hasn’t left yet.”

“Not yet,” agrees his wife, and she leans over to peck his jaw. “I’m gonna go home and tuck this guy in, okay?”

“Yeah, don’t wait up,” he murmurs and she nods, kissing him once more on the lips before heading for the elevator.

True to Haley’s words, your father leaves your room with a sleepy Tessa holding onto his hand ten minutes later, and they walk his way. Your father has obviously been crying and Tessa’s rubbing at her eyes sleepily but she brightens remarkably upon spotting her godfather.

“Aaron!” She all but runs towards him with some otherworldly burst of energy and he bends over to pick her up as your father lopes after her. Tessa’s arms wind around his neck and he hugs her tightly before pulling back.

“Thank you so much, Aaron,” your dad whispers and, moving Tessa to one hand, he embraces your father, too.

“She helped,” he replies and your dad laughs.

“Of course she did. She always finds a way to.” Looking to his granddaughter, he adds, “We need to be getting home so you can go to school. Your mom wants you to do well on your show-and-tell.”

“Yeah. I guess so.” Tessa, who’s heavier than Aaron recalls, reaches for her grandfather with a pout. She clings onto the older man and Aaron smiles warmly at the six-year old. “Bye, Aaron!”

“See you tomorrow, bug,” he promises and she blows a kiss with her pudgy little six-year old hand. His smile softens as she’s carried to the elevator and he waits until they’re gone too before he picks up the bag by his feet and begins the trek to your room.

His heart is heavy in his chest and he can hear voices in your room as he comes closer.

“You know, JJ, there is this teacher at Tessa’s school,” you’re saying. “He’s cute.”

“And how do you know about him?” JJ asks, suspicious. Ah, so he’s intruded on girl talk.

“He’s Tessa’s teacher at school. He asked me out.”

“Someone asked you out?” Garcia gasps and you chuckle, a warm sound that bounces against his ribs. “Oh, my gosh, did you say yes?”

“Well, it was unexpected at first, so there was a lot of staring,” you admit.

“Are you going to say yes?”

Aaron pauses by the doorcase and you seem to think JJ’s question over deeply. A tight feeling winds around his chest when you don’t answer quickly in the negative or the positive. He doesn’t know what answer he wants for you.

“I don’t know,” you say truthfully. “I said some other time, so we’ll see.” You sigh loudly and there’s the sound of something moving as you announce that you’re tired. “I think I’ll try to catch some sleep. It’s been a pretty… weird few days.”

“Of course.” That is when Aaron rounds the corner to see JJ standing with Garcia and they both look at each other before grabbing their bags and coats. “Get some sleep.”

“Sweet dreams,” Garcia murmurs and the two blondes file out with repeated ‘goodnights’. JJ notices him first when she leaves and she dips her head with a small smile.

“Goodnight, sir.”

“Goodnight, JJ. Good work today.” The agent nods before heading off and Aaron repeats the same sentiments to Garcia before looking into your room. Leaning against the frame, he watches you lower the upper half of your bed with a soft mechanical whirr and simply soaks you in, alive and well. You gaze at him through half-shut eyes and your smile slips off his face as you simply look at him, waiting.

“You weren’t honest with them back there,” he finally says, entering without any invitation. You run your hands over your blanket and wiggle to sit up higher, adjusting the cap on your finger as he takes the seat JJ left. Although you look exhausted, you manage to smile wryly at his words. “About this teacher.”

“That’s the first thing you say to me when I’m in a hospital bed?” you ask. “It’s nothing serious, anyway.” He sets his bag down gently by his feet, shrugging off his jacket, and you lift your hand towards him. He scoots closer and catches it, clasping it between his two large palms and your fingers curl weakly, squeezing as tight as you can. “Hey. Are you okay?”

“I think i should be the one asking you that.” He leans forward, and he’s not aware of what he’s even doing. He just can’t stop staring at your face. The past days have been a strange sort of limbo where he’d think you were beside him when you weren’t, telling him it’d be okay. He doesn’t tell you that he’s been hearing your voice in your head but you smile again as if you know. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really.” Your thumb traces over his knuckles as you do so anyway: “All I can think about is Darren. The last moments when he knew he was going to die in that explosion and how he must’ve felt. How he must’ve thought about how he was leaving us behind, like how I thought I was going to leave Tessa an orphan when that bomb went off. How it was so unexpected… How scared he was. How… everything seems so…”

“Final.”

“Yeah.” Your expression softens and he rests his chin on their clasped hands, leaning onto the edge of the bed. “I miss him so much, you know? I miss him so much I don’t know how I’ll survive it. There are some things that Tessa does that makes me think of Darren. Facial expressions, food preferences. She hates asparagus more than he did, I swear.”

He doesn’t say anything more than: “I know.”

“And it occurs to me now…” Your tone changes and he looks at you, eyebrows raised. “I never apologized for everything I said.” It takes a moment for Aaron to think about what you’re talking about but then he frowns.

“No. You don’t. It was a… valid response to me being insensitive.”

“Aaron, I was cruel.”

“Who isn’t, sometimes?” he asks and you mirror his displeased expression. “You were grieving—you still are. I shouldn't have said I understood when I knew you would snap at me. And it was months ago. I don’t even think about it anymore.”

“Still,” you press, “I really… You’re nothing like any of them. I don’t think you’re anything like… whoever that guy was that took me back when we were still kids. I’m so pissed I still don’t know his name, but that’s not relevant right now because right now, I’m—I’m just... I’m sorry.” He squeezes your hand gently. “I didn’t mean anything I said. I just wanted you to hurt like I did. As if I could make you understand but that's just me being selfish. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had.” He smiles against your knuckles. You saying that always makes him think he does okay in that department. “I don’t want you to leave me alone. Not really.”

“Look, I know it’s been hard. I know I can’t understand. If you need to take it out on me, then I’m fine with it. It’s hard to imagine you as selfish,” he says, “and I’ve forgiven you for everything you think you did wrong.” You reaffirm your grip on his hand and your expression eases minutely. “But...”

He opens your hand and flattens it against his chest, where his heart is still beating like gentle thunder.

“Aaron...”

“No. Don’t say you’re sorry. Your husband died. Don’t ever be sorry for how you choose to heal from it.” You tug his shirt and he feels you tug him forward as you sit up, your arms flinging around his chest and he sighs into you, shoulders falling, strength draining away. 

“You know what?” you whisper into his ear and he pulls back, smile pulling at his lips as you brush hair back from his eyes.  “What?”

“You’re kinda the second best thing that’s ever happened to me.” “Second best?”  “Tessa has to take number one,” you whisper and he laughs, wiping a stray tear  off your cheek. Helping you lay down again, he makes sure the pillows are supporting your head and sits back down. “So, if you’re staying for a while longer...” You clear your throat and force a smile, and he looks at you with raised eyebrows. “Is this Hotch Watch version 3.0?”

“Would you like it to be?” he inquires, not even bothering to let the stupid name get to him. He bends down to grab his bag. He had stopped by home as quickly as he could while Haley and Jack were taking their turn visiting you to pick something up. You shift in bed, controlling the bed into a straighter sitting position.

“Yes, please. I’m so glad you came prepared.”

“I just know you.”

“The first time was…”

“Abbey Road. You requested Here Comes the Sun until the nurses were sick of it.”

“It’s a good song.”

“I was sick of it,” he says, trying to find an outlet. Finding one by your I.V., he pulls a small wooden table in the corner of your room that’s supposed to be for newspapers and magazines for visitors, he guesses, closer to your bedside and the outlet. “You insisted on ‘another go.’” Returning to his bag, he pulls out the wooden turntable case and your eyes visibly light up. “Excited?”

“Very excited. I haven’t been spoiled by a Hotch Watch in years.” Fiddling with the remote, you raise the bed to a half-sitting position and arrange your pillows accordingly as he plugs it in. “Also, Here Comes the Sun just makes me happy.”

He pauses to glance at you but you’re too busy rearranging your blankets to notice. It’d been the only thing that made you smile for the days you spent in the hospital after you were found and his gaze softens. I know.

“The second time was Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club,” reminds Aaron aloud, resuming his task.

“The fact that the first song Tessa heard as a baby outside of the womb was A Day in The Life is very telling of our nature,” you comment. He sets the case down, cracks it open and proceeds to plug the thing in.

You had given him this particular turntable as a wedding gift. Waxed cherry wood and gorgeous, it’s one of his most prized possessions. You’d given him the next thing he pulls out of his bag, too. The record cover slides out easily from the folds of his bag and he carefully opens the gatefold of his newly acquired White Album.

“Which one?”

“First one.”

“Side A or Side B?”

“Side B.”

“Alright. Here we go.” Flipping the disc over so it’s the right side up, he sets the needle to the LP and turns the volume down until it’s barely above the loudness of an already loud whisper. He slips the sleeve back into his bag.

The music is soft, warm, and he simply sits there, elbows on his knees as you let your head fall back into your pillow and your eyes close. He watches the record spin absently, listening to the songs he’s heard a thousand times before.

“You know, Gideon came by,” you say after a very long while. Aaron starts. He thought you fell asleep and, to be honest, he almost dozed off himself. He runs a hand over his face and looks up, squinting against the warm lamp light. “Were you asleep?”

“No.”

“Do you need me to call a nurse to get you a bed?”

“No.”

“Too bad.” You grab your remote and ping the nurse and he stifles a groan as an attendant does appear. You explain the situation, about the need for a cot and that you’re sorry to make such a late night request, but the man simply waves it off and promises that they’ll arrange something in a moment.

“I like the ambiance,” the nurse comments before his departure and you grin until the door clicks shut. Then, you look at Aaron and frown.

“Let someone take care of you for once, Hopscotch,” you say fondly as the song switches to the bouncy beat of Don’t Pass Me By. “Oh, I love this song.”

“You love every Beatles song.”

“Not true,” you retort as he stands to stretch his legs. His muscles welcome it and he lets out a muffled groan when his hip clicks.

“Name one Beatles song you dislike.”

Silence.

He smiles in victory as the door opens again and he untucks his dress shirt as they take the chairs. They set up a foldable metal cot with a mattress and a blanket by the turntable, a few pillows, and the older orderly comments on the music.

“It’s very good, isn’t it? I remember when it first came out. I was just a girl. Took the whole world by storm,” the woman says. “But you need to rest.”

“I will,” you promise before they depart and Aaron sits down on the edge of his cot, frowning. It’s at a much lower level than he anticipated. “There is no bad Beatles song,” you finally admit.

“Not even Ob-la-di, Ob-la-da?”

“What?” You’re scandalized. “That song is so cute.”

“Well, everyone except you and Paul hate it apparently.”

“Since when are you on a first name basis with Paul McCartney?” You blink. “And, since when do you hate that song?” Aaron huffs a laugh.

“Fine. Me, you, and Paul McCartney.”

“Better.”

“Now.” He leans forward to untie his shoes, already knowing he’s probably not going to get back home tonight. He’s too exhausted to drive a second more. “About Gideon?” He pulls off one shoe and then works on the other.

“Oh, yeah.” Your mirth dies quickly. “He came to visit. We had a pretty long talk before I had to read Tessa her bedtime story. Not like I could move anywhere, but… It was a long time coming.”

“Yeah?” He pulls off his other shoe and starts to unbuckle his belt. 

“I told him about how I keep his apology letter in my purse with me all the time and how I started smoking and just talked to him. You know, about everything like nothing was wrong. Like Darren…”

Aaron reaches to turn the music down as the song switches to Julia but you shake your head and he pulls back. Tugging off his belt, he lies down and adjusts the pillow beneath his head, letting out a long sigh.

“Like Darren is still alive,” he finishes.

“Yeah.” You’re silent for a moment. “He asked me if the apology letter helped. It’s not like it’s going to bring Darren back so I said no, but… it’s the thought that counts and I’m not mad.”

“You’re not?”

“I’m bitter. There’s a difference,” you correct somberly. “Even then, I’m… I don’t want to hold that inside me anymore. I’m just so tired of hating.” He rolls onto his side and you imitate his position, sighing. “I’m so tired, Aaron.”

“I know.” He chews on the inside of his cheek before adding in a quiet tone, “Did… did anyone tell you about Elle?” You nod. “Gideon went to go see her, too.”

“Is she awake?”

“Not that I last heard of, but she’ll make it.” He pauses, jaw locking, and then: “How did you know it was Winston Drive?”

“I didn’t,” you whisper. “Garner would tell me hints, things that would help or hinder, and I had to choose carefully. He said if I knew… knew you, I would know. He made me write on the discs and there was newspaper on the walls—” Your voice breaks and you close your eyes. It’s almost like Aaron can physically see you trying to hold yourself together and he reaches forward. Your hand finds his blindly and he squeezes your palm tight. “I’m sorry.”

“Get some sleep.” The music stops and he straightens up to turn it off but you tug the hand you still hold. He looks up to find you, pitifully small and exhausted, and you try to smile but it doesn’t quite work. He lets go of your hand, you bring it back to your chest.

“Can you…”

“Yeah, of course.” You burrow deeper into your pillows. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

When he’s sure you’re actually trying to sleep, he sets the record from the beginning again.

.

You’re discharged the next morning when it’s still dark out, probably because you get your way with nurses and doctors.

You’re a model patient. It’s a learned talent but nonetheless, it’s too early to be waking up your dad since he has to drive Tessa to school anyway so you call Aaron.

Technically, you shouldn’t be back on duty until next week, but you insist on going with Aaron to wherever he’s going.

“If my two weeks of vacation are ruined by being kidnapped, I’d feel better doing something. Besides, I don’t have anywhere I need to be,” you point out. Getting into his car, you touch your bruised cheek tentatively before looking out the window. You don’t recognize the direction they’re going and you turn to tell Aaron so.

“We’re going to Elle’s house,” he says in a tone that warrants no questions and you nod to yourself. The young woman’s still in the hospital and as they stop before the building, you feel a flicker of dread at the police tape across the door. “Wait there,” he adds and you frown, turning back to Aaron who gets out of the car. He grabs some red buckets and rags before jogging around to the passenger side and opening the door for you.

“I could’ve done that,” you say, sliding out of the seat slowly. Your legs are still a bit funny-feeling and his hands hover but you wave him off, closing the door with a slam behind you. He walks up to the house and you follow, eyes dancing over the darkness. You’re in nothing but the change of clothes your dad brought—loose sweats, an old university tee and a pair of boots—but Aaron returned your gun (strapped to your hip) and your badge (safe in your pocket).  

You’re safe here, but yet that lingering paranoia looms over your shoulder.

You jog to catch up to Aaron as he bends down to rip off the tape. You stay silent the whole time. There’s something he needs to do and he hasn’t told you yet, but you have a strange feeling in your stomach.

“I sent her home,” he says at length as he opens the door. Stepping in, it is quiet and you can smell the bleach as soon as you enter. Aaron immediately sheds his jacket and you roll up your sleeves, turning to soak in the place.

RULES

Your eyes widen at the dried blood splattered onto the wall by the door in a crude spelling of the word, and then you remember what Randall Garner had said.

“Your knights have broken my sacred rule. Did you know this?”

“Aaron, what was the rule?” you inquire, turning to the man who picks up one of the buckets and heads for the bathroom. You pick up the other to follow and sit on the toilet seat as he fills up his bucket in the tub.

“No one outside our team was allowed to help. Gideon called a press conference, I sent Elle home. I shouldn’t have—I wasn’t thinking.”

“You were thinking she needed to get some sleep,” you say.

“I should’ve let her sleep at the BAU.”

“Well, there’s a whole lot of guilt going around,” you comment simply. “The only thing you can do now is just do better.”

He fills up your bucket next, and together, they walk back to the wall where the blood of their friend paints the plaster. Aaron rolls up his sleeves and offers you a pair of gloves. Slapping them on, the agents dip their rags into the water and begin to scrub the blood away. You can feel the way Aaron thinks, how pissed he is at himself, the guilt buried beneath his mask, but you don’t say anything.

He won’t verbalize it. Aaron isn’t a verbal person, but the most you can do right now is be there for him while he works through the storm inside his heart and head.

The blood doesn’t lift off the paint completely as you wring out the blood and dip your rag into clean water again.

a/n: thank you for reading! leave a reblog if you enjoyed ❤️ 

TAGS: @withyoutilltheendofthismess @thebriarpatch @joemazzello-imagines @thisiscalm-andits-doctor @sera-wonderland @pity-mee @duvetsandpillows @roses-and-grasses @stainedpomegranatelips  @angelsbabey @sansonnette​ @xxlovingfandomsxx @rachelxwayne @kingandrear @simsvetements @emery--nicole--morrison @genevievedarcygranger @mooneylupinblack @sercyan @forgottenword​

[myhockeyworld87]

Bubble Wrapped - Part 11

Word Count: 3,827

POV: Reader

Warnings: Same as always, Language, Smut, NSFW, Please see the note in the Masterlist

Teams: Bruins, Caps, Flyers, Lightning, Pens, Jackets, Canes, Islanders (more to come)

Notes: You guys have spoken and so here it is the next part of Bubble Wrapped. The new Jamie Benn series RUINED will be out on Thursday.As always feedback is greatly appreciated and wanted...hahaha! Luv ya all!! Happy Reading to all!

The elevator door opened and you walked with Dougie, Joel, and Svech to your suite. All you could think about was how you were going to live with these three for the next few days. They were extremely easy on the eyes, not to mention the comment you swore you heard Edmundson say in the elevator, had you wondering if he'd be sneaking into your bedroom. Not that you were opposed to that, but the bedrooms were kind of close together so the other two would know what was going on. That was unless they were all in there with you.

 Oh god, you needed to get your mind out of the gutter. You opened the door, inviting them all in. "I'll be sure to have keys made for you guys for the next couple of days." Though if you had to guess Carly was probably already taking care of that as you spoke. "So I'll give you a quick tour. This is the living room, obviously, and over there is the dining room." You pointed out each thing as you went. "The bar is fully stocked, but please don't drink all my pinot noir." The last thing you needed was them showing up to a game drunk and their coach reading you the riot act, but they were grown men and it wasn't like you were going to lock up all the alcohol as if they were teenagers. Well, on second thought, maybe you should after what they did to your hotel room. "This is the kitchen. If there's something special you want, just write it down and I'll have the staff bring it up."

 Svech opened the refrigerator doors and took a peek inside. "Man, you've got cookie dough ice cream in here!" It wasn't something that you indulged in every night, but there were times that you just needed a couple scoops to get through the week.

 "If there's another kind you like, just let me know." You told him and his face lit up like a child on Christmas morning. "Now, if you want to follow me upstairs; I'll show you your rooms." They trailed after you and you felt like a mama duck with her ducklings. "This door right here will take you to the rooftop pool, but please don't go up there if it's not your team time." The last thing you need was someone being pushed off the roof or some such nonsense. "This is my room." Joel craned his neck inside and damnit if you didn't blush as one of your bras was laying on top of the bed from when you were getting ready this morning. You tried to keep them moving down the hall. "Over here is the room with the king and then this one has the two queen beds. Your stuff should be up in a few minutes, but feel free to make yourself at home. I'm going to have to get back to work and clean up the mess that you made."

 "We're really sorry," Dougie told you, with a sad look in his eye. It was really hard to be mad at someone when they were being somewhat adorable at the same time.

 "I know, it's fine, but please tell me what the hell you guys were doing that you broke a water pipe."

 The three of them exchanged glances debating on whether or not to spill the beans, while you tried to give your best impression of your mother. It was the look she always gave you when you did something wrong that just made you so guilt ridden that you finally confessed all your sins. Svech, being the baby of the group, finally couldn't take it. "You see we have a game tonight against Boston," he explained as if that was supposed to be the answer. When he didn't say anything more, you crossed your arms across your chest and just waited. "Anyhow…we heard that Pastrnak's room was above Joel's here. We thought we could interrupt his sleep and maybe throw off his game."

 Oh my god, you had to be kidding. Did these three really think that something like that would work? From the look on their faces, the answer was a resounding yes. "What about you guys? Wouldn't you be missing sleep as well?" They all looked at you dumbfounded as if that never occurred to them. God, athlete's were really didn't think sometimes, did they? "So I take you were banging on the ceiling a little too hard with the hockey stick that I saw?"

 "Yeah," Joel answered sheepishly for the group. "Again, we're really sorry."

 "Well, please don't let it happen in this room. I'd like to keep my job."

 "No, never," Dougie told you.

 "Besides, we're on the top floor. We couldn't annoy anyone if we tried." Svech added. Obviously, he didn't include you in that anyone part.

 "Well, I need to get back to work." Just then there was a knock on the door and you took off downstairs to answer it. It was a couple of bellhops with all their luggage. "The guys will show you what rooms to put it in. Thank you two for coming up so fast with all this stuff. I'm off to the lobby, if you need anything just give me a call."

 "Will do," you heard the trio say as you headed out the door.

 "Oh, and one more thing. No parties up here."

 "You got it, boss." This time you weren't sure if it was the bellhops or your new roommates calling out to you as you shut the door behind you.

 The day went fast, as you were helping Carly find parts to fix the room as well as trying to get all new furnishings in. You literally had a small window of time you were working with. Thankfully, you still had some new mattresses tucked away, when you changed some of the queen beds to king-size. It was the dressers and televisions that you needed to get in, as well as new flooring. Before you knew it, the night shift was taking over and you were headed up to your room.

 The guys were still playing game three and the suite was quiet as you entered. Last you heard they were losing but you hadn't been able to see any of it on television. You hurried upstairs and changed into some comfy clothes, before putting the game on. It was in the third period and the Canes had the puck in the offensive zone. You were too busy following the puck to see exactly what happened, but then the whistle blew and you saw him laying on the ice. Players often went down and then only seconds later got back up and were back ready to play, so you tried not to think the worst, but then they replayed what actually happened. What you couldn't decide was whether it was Svech's knee or ankle that seemed to totally snap as he fell. Your stomach dropped and you couldn't even watch it again, as the camera seemed to zoom in. Trainers dashed onto the ice to take care of him until they finally helped carry him off; Svech not putting any weight on his leg. You weren't sure if he'd be back tonight or not, it was obvious that he needed to go to the hospital to be evaluated, but he was definitely going to need someone to take care of him when he did get back.

 It was a couple hours later when Dougie and Joel came in, neither of them knowing how Svech was doing at the moment, only saying that he was getting scans and MRIs done. They were both mentally and physically exhausted and everyone headed to bed, including you. It was about one-thirty in the morning that you woke up, your brain in a slight sleep fog as you remembered you forgot to set the coffee pot to have your morning brew ready. Let's face it you weren't a functioning human being until at least one cup of caffeine in the morning, well unless you were greeted by a certain smiling hockey player when you rolled over. Quickly, you darted out of your room and down the stairs. You fumbled with the coffee maker for a few minutes in the dark before setting everything up for auto-perk, then went to head back up to your room.

 You'd just stepped into the living room when a figure in white moved on the couch. "Jesus!" you gasped, not sure if you were asking for his help or seeing his spirit move in your suite. As your eyes finally adjusted to the dim light, you could make out that it was Joel squishing his large frame on the sofa. "What are you doing down here?"

 "I couldn't sleep." He mumbled, punching at his pillow before throwing it behind his head in hopes of finding some sort of comfortable position. His gaze lingered on your body a little longer than necessary and it was then that you realized you were only in a cutoff t-shirt and a thong. You hated wearing sleep pants to bed as your legs always got overheated and, in your haste, to get the coffee ready, you hadn't thought to put any on.

 "Is something wrong with the room?"

 "God, no," he was quick to tell you. "It's just…" he seemed to hesitate, so you took a step closer, knowing that it probably wasn't the smartest thing to do given your lack of dress, but you wanted him to know that he could talk to you. "I rolled over and saw Svech's empty bed and kept thinking about how he went down. Thought if I came down here, I could maybe get some shut-eye."

 "How's that working out?"

 He obviously knew you were teasing, as he gave a light chuckle. "Not so bad." His eyes looked you up and down again, and the sympathy you had for him a moment ago, almost vanished.

 "Oh good, then I'll just head back up to my room if you're all comfy."

 "Wait," he said stopping you even though you were kidding. There was no way you were going to let this nearly six-and-a-half-foot body, fit on that tiny couch all night. "Does this thing pull out or something? This couch is actually kind of small."

 "Well, no it's not a pullout. I was actually going to offer my bed to you." His eyes got huge at your suggestion and he started to grab his pillow and sit up. "I'll just take your bed if you don't care."

 "Oh, no I can't let you do that. I'm fine here." Fluffing the pillow back up he threw it behind his head. His frame curling up as best he could on the sofa.

 "Don't be an ass, and take my bed."

 "What kind of gentlemen would I be, if I did that?" Was he just trying to be difficult now or nice; you couldn't really tell?

 "Seriously, you'll be all cramped up if you sleep down here. Now, get your butt upstairs."

 "We could share your bed." Ah, so there it was, the real reason, he wouldn't take your bed. "I promise no funny business." He sounded like your grandmother when he put it like that.

 "If it lets us both get some sleep, then sure." Joel jumped up off the couch as if he hadn't been curled up in a ball on it, grabbing his pillow and following your up the stairs. Once ensconced inside the room, you shut the door before asking, "Which side do you want?"

 "Doesn't matter." You went to crawl in the under the right side of the covers and heard him make a noise, obviously distressed that you'd chosen that side.

 "You could've just said you wanted this one," you teased him, then scooted over to the left side of the bed.

 "I'm trying to be accommodating."

 Turning, you faced the middle of the bed. The fact that it was a California king meant that even with how tall Joel was there was still enough room between the two of you to fit another person. "Goodnight," you whispered over, closing your eyes and wondering if he'd make any sort of move on you.

 "Night," you heard him as he lay facing you. You were almost asleep when you felt him shift, not wanting to open your eyes to see if it was closer to you or if he actually just turned over. Instead, you laid there and waited, and were surprised when nothing happened. Sneaking a quick peek told you that he was laying on his back. You took a moment to take in his well-chiseled form; arms well defined from lifting weights you assumed, a smattering of chest hair barely noticeable in the moonlight, and that indent leading to a happy trail which was covered by blankets. If he didn't do something soon, you were pretty sure you were.

 He moved again, this time presenting you with his back. "Is something wrong?" you called over, and he flipped back once again. Thank god this wasn't a waterbed or you'd have been seasick.

 "Hmm," he mumbled. "No…sorry." You opened your eyes then, and he was just laying there staring at you. "God, you're beautiful...sorry…I promised nothing…" You didn't let him finish, as you scooched over and planted a kiss on his lips. It didn't take long for it to turn into something heated as his tongue quickly sought entrance into your mouth. His hands slipped up under your shirt so he could cup your breasts. The globes molding perfectly in his large hands. A moan escaped your lips as he tweaked each nipple and you felt a rush of wetness go straight to your core.

 You slid your hands down his chest, raking your nails over his abs and causing him to shiver. Joel gathered the hem of your shirt, then lifted it over your head, tossing it somewhere in the bedroom. Pushing his boxers down, you palmed the length of him, and god was there length to him. He hissed out his pleasure as you slid your hand up and down his shaft.

 His hand slithered into your panties; his fingers toying with both your clit and pussy. "So wet," he breathed out and you took the opportunity to push him down so he lay on his back. You quickly disposed of the flimsy garment that was your underwear, before straddling his hips and positioning his cock at your core. Leaning down you touched your lips to his as you slowly sunk down on him.

 Once he was buried fully inside you, you broke the kiss. Whispering for him to be quiet as you started to rock back and forth. Grabbing the headboard for leverage, your body moved up and down on his length. Joel's hand went straight to your hips, helping you find a rhythm that both of you enjoyed. It didn't take long to find a pace that had you both worked up. "Don't stop baby." He hissed out, then took one hand and started to rub your clit. Your back arched and you felt the hand on your hip slide up to cup your breast as you rode him. His hips were rising to meet you now and with the flicking motion on your clit, you could feel the orgasm start to build. Your pussy started to spasm, squeezing his cock as you climaxed. "Fuck," he moaned and flipped you on your back mid-orgasm. Joel, grabbed your hips pinning you to the bed as his cock pistoned in and out of you, as he thoroughly fucked your pussy, and though you'd just climaxed seconds ago, you felt another bursting to the surface. Your legs started to tremble and you clasp them around Joel's waist holding on for dear life. His head dipped down to your shoulder and he softly bit you there as he thrust a few more times before spending deep within you. His arms were shaking with an effort to remain upright and not just topple on you, but he managed to kiss you quickly before rolling back onto his side of the bed.

 You laid there, chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath. Fuck, had you ever orgasmed so close together like that before? There wasn't a time that came to mind, well except when Tyler was playing with that vibrator, but that really didn't count. Joel was like some sort of sex god, and you had to wonder if you had sex again would it be just as good? Hopefully, you'd find out tomorrow night or the next for that matter, but for now, you needed to not act like the man had just given you one of the best orgasms of your life. You rolled onto your side to face him, propping your head on your hand. "Think you'll be able to sleep now?"

 He laughed at the comment, still a bit out of breath. "Oh yeah," he responded finally, though he padded out of bed to the bathroom and you heard him splash some water on his face, before coming back in with a wet washcloth to clean you up. Joel pulled the covers back, then gently spread your legs, before wiping your thighs and then your pussy. It was all rather intimate but after what the two of you had just done, nothing seemed off-limits. He tossed the cloth, back in the bathroom, then crawled back into bed, bringing the blankets up around both of you, before scooting closer to you and tucking you into his side. "I think I'll sleep even better if you're like this. Unless this is too uncomfortable for you?"

 Damn, if this man wasn't a gentleman. "Not at all," you told him and snuggled a little closer toward him. His breathing evened out in minutes and the hand that was idly stroking your back, slowly stopped. It took him all of about two minutes to fall asleep. You chuckled to yourself at that fact, though quickly followed behind him.

 You were still locked in the same position the next morning when you felt the sun peeking through the small opening you'd left in the blinds. Slowly, you opened your eyes, careful not to move too much in hopes of not disturbing Joel if he was sleeping. Though as you opened them, you were greeted with his staring back at you. "Morning," you whispered groggily.

 "Morning, beautiful." You stretched as much as you could, while still held within the comfort of his arms. "Thanks again for last night. Best night's sleep I've had since I got in the bubble."

 "Well, we do pride ourselves here in our customers getting a good night's sleep."

 He laughed, then dropped a kiss to your forehead. "You definitely live up to your word."

 Glancing over at the clock, you noticed the time and knew that you had to get ready to start your day. "I'd love to stay here in bed with you all day, but some of us have work."

 He pulled you close, and took the opportunity to kiss you fully on the lips before answering. "We have practice as well. I should probably grab a bite to eat first. I'll meet you downstairs in a bit." He kissed you one last time, before climbing out of bed and heading back to his room.

 It was about forty-five minutes later, that you came downstairs to find both him and Dougie sitting at the dining room table where a full breakfast was laid out. "Wow, what's this?"

 "I took the liberty of ordering room service," Joel told you. "I wasn't sure what you liked, so there's a little bit of everything." You were used to just grabbing a yogurt and maybe a banana, but the Belgium waffles smelled delicious, so you sat down and joined them.

 "Thanks," you said, as you grabbed a bit of fresh fruit and put it on your plate. "Did you guys sleep well?" You already knew Joel's answer but you wanted to make it look good so that Dougie wouldn't know what the two of you had been up to.

 "I slept like the dead," Dougie answered. "Haven't had that good of sleep in a long time."

 "Same," Joel said only his face turned a delightful shade of red and he started to cough.

 "Dude, are you choking or something?" Dougie said, patting him on the back.

 "I'm fine," he finally got out. "Wrong pipe." Joel was saved from further embarrassment as the door to the suite opened and in came Svech, hobbling on a pair of crutches and wearing a boot on his leg.

 "Hey man, how are you?" Dougie asked as you all got up to go check on him.

 "Ok, still not sure the extent of anything. They're going to do another MRI tomorrow. Doctors just said to stay off it and take it easy." Andrei answered the question you were all dying to know.

 "Well, here why don't you sit down," you told him, motioning for him to go on the couch. He plopped down and you immediately went and grabbed a few pillows to prop under his leg. "Can I get you something to eat?"

 "Yes, I'm starving. I haven't had anything since before the game." You went over and made him a heaping plate of breakfast food, while the guys talked specifics with him. He was definitely out for the rest of the series and you had a feeling it would be the rest of playoffs if the Canes made it through this round. "This is great, thank you."

 "I need to get downstairs and check on things, are you going to be ok here?" You asked Svech.

 "Yeah, I just have to figure out the stairs. I slept like hell." His face confirmed the words he'd just spoken as there were bags under his eyes. "Sure, that wasn't the case for you guys."

 Joel avoided looking at his younger colleague and you almost burst out laughing. "If you can wait here for about twenty minutes, I'll take you in through the pool." You told him. "We can use the door upstairs that has a private entrance into the suite that I showed you yesterday, that way you don't have to use the stairs. You just need a different key to get back in."

 "Wow, been holding out on us." Dougie teased. "We could've had a pool party last night." You rolled your eyes.

 "Finish your breakfast, and I'll be back in a few." You headed off to make sure that everything was fine in the hotel and to see if you were needed for anything as you had a feeling that Svech was going to need a lot more help than just making it upstairs.

[bang-to-the-tan]

Moth to Flame

Chapter 13

Reader x OT7

► Vampire!AU

Smut/Porn With Some Plot

Warnings: (hoo boy) Oral Sex, Blowjobs, Cunnilingus, Double Penetration, Sloppy Seconds, Vaginal Sex, Anal Sex, Degradation,Somewhat Dubious Consent/Hypnosis, Vaginal Fingering, Anal Fingering, Handjob, Masturbation, Cumplay, Threesome (M/M/F), Foursome (M/M/M/F), Voyeurism, Slight Stockholm Syndrome?, Possessiveness, Vampires (Biting, Blood-Sucking, Reference to Death), Language

Words: 11.1K (jesus tittyfucking CHRIST)

↳ Summary: Robbed of your memories and intended as a birthday present for a deadly creature of the night, you unwittingly become the center of a territorial dispute between two covens of vampires. Tensions are rising and the brothers are getting hungry…

Previous    Masterlist          Next

Yoongi’s sweatpants fit well enough to get by in, matched with another of Namjoon’s hoodies—this time in a tan color. (How many hoodies does one man need? You’re reminded again of Jin’s seemingly endless supply of clothing, though you don’t dare mention the similarity) The flip flops he’s lent you are a little on the large side, but you doubt it really matters. You’re just glad to be wearing shoes again. As you wait by the door for Namjoon to get his keys and slide his arms through his jacket, tugging on a bucket hat and hanging a pair of sunglasses onto his shirt, you’re still trying to process your emotions. Outside. With other people. Other humans, even. Are you going to run? Are you going to try to escape? It feels like that’s what you should be planning.

“Oh.” Namjoon catches your attention as you muse, pulling dark, smokey fabric your way and wrapping it around your neck. You pluck distractedly at one of the fringes hanging off it, meeting his gaze after a second.

“Just in case,” he says, shifting the scarf around your shoulders more securely. “For the marks.”

“They look bad?”

He tilts your head to the side, inspecting you with a quirk of his lips. “Mm. No. Not really. Kinda healed. But just in case. Don’t want any awkward questions.”

Awkward questions. Like, ‘blink twice if you’re being held hostage’? That kind of awkward? You allow him to tuck the edges back in, hiding the evidence of where you’ve been. What you’ve been doing. What’s been done to you. You grimace. Your head still hurts, and the world has begun spinning a little when you turn your neck too quickly.

You blink, and you’re in the passenger’s seat of the car, staring out the window while Namjoon talks. Vaguely, you’re aware of what he’s saying. That he thinks it’s awfully important. You beg to differ.

“—find you on any, like, missing persons databases so I think we’re in the clear, but just to be safe, y’know. This is…it’s a risk. You understand?”

You hum, working your jaw. You wish he’d gotten you something a little stronger for the headache. It’s better than it was, but not gone. Swear it gets worse when he talks, and he’s talking a lot.

“I need you to behave yourself. Don’t make a scene. If you act out, then we can’t do this anymore.”

You roll your eyes, even knowing that it’s going to twinge at your migraine.

“I’m not gonna run around screaming about being kidnapped, Joon,” you grumble.

“I know. I know, I just want to make sure we’re on the same page. I promised you we’d let you go when we’ve…sorted something else out.”

“That’s a different phrasing than you used last time.”

“I’m trying. Okay? Just—I’m not trying to keep you prisoner.”

“Hence the handcuffs.”

You flick a glance over at him just in time to catch the tick of his jaw as he narrows his eyes at the road ahead.

“That is…not the same thing.”

“If it’s sexy, then kidnapping is okay.”

The exasperated snort of air that he answers with is partly humored and partly frustrated.

“You are, annoying sometimes, you know that?”

“I get to be, I think.” You turn back to the window. “Considering.”

“…yeah. Alright. Considering.”

 The store has too many fucking people in it, is the thought that occurs to you. At first, pulling into the parking lot, you’re excited to see them. Human beings, running amok, running free. You feel like an animal at a zoo released into the wild. Ordinary people, milling about, going about their ordinary lives. It’s invigorating.

That feeling quickly fades when you actually get into the building. The smells, too-sharp chemicals and body odor hits you immediately; cheaply, quickly cooked food and even cheaper body spray. The noises. Chattering, obnoxious laughing heard from the other side of the store, children shrieking and shouting. A cart down the way has a squeaky wheel and you can track it through the aisles. You ruminate on thoughts of violence perpetrated by the item in question itself, of picking it up and throwing it out the finger-smudged windows with the screeching baby still inside it.

Namjoon’s hand on yours squeezes reassuringly. It’s unclear to you whether he can sense your discomfort but you don’t think you’ll mention it if it’s possible to avoid doing so. You can’t imagine how unbearably smug he’d be to learn that you’d rather be around him than them. Once you’re in the store, he lifts his sunglasses, but leaves the hat on.  

“Not gonna burn to a crisp in the sunlight?” You ask after a moment of watching a child attempt to shove his entire hand up one nostril.

“Nah. Just a little sensitive on the eyes.”

“The super cool, far-seeing, all-knowing vampire eyes.”

“Those ones.”

“I should have brought a flashlight to the club, is what you’re telling me.”

He chuckles, shrugging. “Maybe so.”

He leads you to the clothing section, still holding your hand, and there isn’t an atom in your body that is even vaguely alright with the idea of letting him out of your sight. There’s a feeling like you’d get swept up in this sea of people, lost in a world so entirely foreign to you. You know you used to belong here. This used to be yours.

But flicking numbly through shirts and pants, skirts, jackets, mumbling half-remembered guesses at measurements, listening to the cacophony around you, lost in the harsh overhead lights…you don’t belong here. You aren’t sure whether it’s more upsetting to think that you don’t now, or that once upon a time, you did. Once upon a time, you didn’t question it.

A gaggle of teenaged girls passes by. For a third time. They stare at Namjoon in turns, giggling and speeding up, skittering past, chattering to each other excitedly. Their idea of stealth leaves a lot to be desired.

“You have admirers.”

Namjoon cocks his head, lips pursing, as he pulls a t-shirt off the rack and holds it up to you appraisingly. “I’m ignoring them.”

“Not hungry?”

His eyes flit to yours. “Never teenagers.” He replies, low, firm. He sounds almost upset. “Never kids.”

You hear the click of a phone camera and a high-pitched giggle of embarrassment, the forcibly hushed whispers of ‘turn off the noise turn off the noise, oh my god!’.

“Not even annoying ones?”

“If you really want to discourage them, you could kiss me.” He says instead, lightly, but his eyes flick to yours and you can taste the heat behind them.

“That’ll do it, you think?” you echo sardonically.

He hums, nodding once in affirmation.

Before you can think too hard, you slide a hand over his on the shirt hanger, guiding it back towards the rack so that you can close the gap between you. Like the first time, he doesn’t move at first. Allows you to crane upwards, struggle to brush your lips together, before he finally acquiesces and takes the remaining space, laying a lingering kiss against your mouth. He’s warm, soft. His lips taste like him. Like how he smells. Like Namjoon. The two of you lock gazes as you part, and you willfully ignore the electricity shimmying down your body.

“I don’t like the color of that one,” you break the silence after a pause. He blinks slow, a grin crawling across his face.

“No?”

“No. But the one behind it is nice.”

“Anything for baby.”

You don’t allow him the warmth that curls inside of you at that.

 The two of you end up standing in line, holding a modest armful of clothing that you’re pretty sure will fit, waiting for your turn at the checkout. It’s not even a matter of what you’re planning to buy at this point—your headache has only gotten worse and it’s all you can do not to lose your fucking mind. You reached the breaking point about ten minutes ago and you’re absolutely going to go batshit if you don’t leave this store immediately. Which is why when Joon starts doing that ‘patting himself down in surprise’ motion, you’re thrown into palpable despair.

“Oh, shit.”

“No. No, Namjoon.” You plead through gritted teeth, throwing him a desperate look.

“My wallet’s in the car.”

“Damn you, goddamn you—“

He grabs your arms with an apologetic smile that dimples his cheeks. “Just stand off to the side. I’ll be back in two minutes.”

“No, Namjoon. No.”

But he’s already skipping away from you, holding up two fingers and mouthing ‘two minutes’ back your way. You hate him. You hope he gets run over while he’s out there.

You trudge over to a nearby empty counter, dumping your armful onto it, resisting the urge to throw yourself on the pile and pull a pair of jeans over your head. Your brain hurts, your teeth are chattering, it’s too bright, it’s too loud, it smells, god, it smells, you had no idea you were so sensitive, you are so ready to go home. And by now you don’t even care that you’re calling it home. You can’t afford to care. What you wouldn’t do for more medication. For that turtle. Oh, how you lament the absence of that heavenly reptile.

 “Hey.”

You start at the sound of an unfamiliar voice, sounding up and away but too close to the back of your head. You turn, casting your glance up at the tall man standing by the counter. He’s not a worker; instead of their overly bright getup he’s sporting a leather jacket and black jeans. You don’t understand why he’s talking to you, if that’s the case, and you’re not really in sure how to pretend otherwise at the moment. His grin is crooked, raising his eyebrows expectantly, but at your expression his mischievous look fades.

“…Sorry, I thought I knew you!” He says after an awkward moment. Your heart seizes. Knew you?

He gestures with his hands as he explains. “Y’know, from the back, you look—I thought I recognized you.”

“…O-oh.” You aren’t sure what to say to that. Fuck, you sincerely hope he was mistaken. You hadn’t even considered what would happen if someone who used to know you sees you. The person you were before…before this. You don’t think you recognize him.

There’s another pause, where you turn away slightly, willing this moment to be over, but he doesn’t move. The moment instead stretches into forever. You would like to cease existing.

“Are you okay?”

“Fine! I’m—“ God, it’s been a long time since you’ve spoken to real people. You crane back around, forcing a smile that you hope doesn’t look too forced. “I’m fine. Just waiting. My, um.” You stumble over a way to define Namjoon, deciding in the end to abandon it entirely. “He left his wallet in the car.”

“Hm.” He doesn’t look convinced, flashing you a cursory up-and-down glance. Actually, looking at him, he’s pretty handsome himself. Wide lips, strong nose. A jawline to kill for. His neck is thick. You wonder what else of him—no, no. No. No. You like his eyes, you decide weakly. He’s got kind eyes. Good, nice eyes.

“Do you mind if I talk to you?”

You frown, throwing him another glance. Misgiving pools in your stomach warningly. You really, really aren’t in any kind of state to be carrying conversations with strangers. “Uh.”

He casts a look around, casual if not for the serious slant to his strong brows. He leans forward, pulling one edge of his jacket to the side. You see a flash of silver, recognize the badge hooked to the inside, and it clicks in your head, despite the chaos spinning around the edges of the world like a sick carousel. You don’t see much of the ID badge underneath but for his name, and his serious-faced photo, before he tucks it back away. Jackson. His name is Jackson.

“…You’re a cop.”

“Nothing’s the matter,” he reassures, holding out a hand placatingly, eyes watching yours. “Just like to ask you a few questions.” He jerks his head at the entrance.

“Come with me.”

Oh. Relief floods your limbs so intense you almost sigh aloud. That’s okay, then. Yeah, that’s fine. The clothes’ll be alright here for a second longer, you’re sure. You’re already following him as he peels off the counter and starts walking casually, your doubts melting away, making your steps lighter. Local police. Just a few questions, yeah. You can handle that. God, you were so afraid for a minute. The thought makes you chuckle under your breath when his back is turned as he leads you out the door, turning the corner to an alcove by the entrance. You definitely can handle whatever this handsome stranger wants to dole out.

He turns when you get there, stepping to the side so you can tuck yourself by the side of the building, out of view of any nosy people.

“How can I help you, officer?” you ask demurely, a smile curling the edge of your lips. Just being out of that building is helping your headache immensely. It’s fading as you speak, releasing its grip on your jaw, your thoughts.

He cranes over his shoulder to survey the parking lot behind him and you take the brief respite to admire the way his shirt pulls across subtle pecs, across broad shoulders, underneath the jacket that does little to hide his physique. The way he fills those black jeans. You like the obvious power in what you can see. Is it weird to be checking the cop out? No. No, certainly not. You resist the urge to bite your lip when he looks back to you and grins again. He’s cute when he smiles.

“So where are you from?”

“Ah…not too far from here, actually,” you return, playing at shy.

“No?” he chuckles, and the giggle threatening to bubble up past your lips finally wins over. You sway a little with the girlish sound. It’s all part of the act. You’re a normal human girl talking to a normal, albeit strikingly handsome, police officer. Everything is fine. “You sure? You aren’t from a little further up north? Think very carefully.”

You shake your head, grinning. The world around you spins delightfully when you do, fuzzing slightly about the edges. It’s really warm out here. You didn’t notice that before. It’s nice. “No. I don’t think so.”

“Don’t think so?” he echoes, stepping closer. That’s good. You like that. Your heartbeat quickens in your throat. “Weird way to answer…are you having trouble remembering?”

“Maybe.” You giggle again, feeling a thrill wash through your frame when he takes another step forward, threatening to invade your space. You fall back to the wall, leaning your head against it to allow yourself a better view of his smirk. Your head doesn’t want to stay upright properly, but the wall helps. If you can just get him a little closer…maybe you could…he is very handsome. And his lips…You stare at them with hunger pooling in your gut, intently watching the way they pull when he scoffs. Very kissable. Check.

“I’m gonna take a wild guess,” he murmurs in that low growl of his, “About who you really are…”

One hand comes up to brace against the wall, caging you in. You can feel his warmth now. Can smell the mint on his breath. Your stomach twists in anticipation. There’s something familiar in his expression now. A darkness. A hunger. You’re beyond pleased to see it in a face so handsome.

“Going by these…” he hums, and you feel a finger dragging against the column of your neck, slipping underneath the scarf. You huff a pleased breath, craning to press more of your skin towards him, nearly moaning when he presses his hot palm against the bitemarks in a curious fashion. “And…this…” His hand slides down, disentangling from the fabric, fingertips grazing your sternum, too close to the mark at your breast. He’s finding your little secrets very easily, you think with a hushed giggle. You wonder if he’ll get the next one. You hope he gets the next one. Arousal crawls down your spine and you arch at the thought, suddenly desperate for it.

“Hah, fuck, wow, that’s a reaction, huh? They treat you nice?”

You’re nodding, whimpering when his hand starts towards your hip. He nuzzles forward, presses a testing peck against your lips but you surge towards him, clutching at his wide shoulders, pulling him closer. He chuckles breathlessly against your mouth as you kiss him, a free hand going to his wrist and tugging it towards your inner thigh. He tastes like mint gum, warm lips caressing yours firmly, supple and pliant.

“Are you good for them?” he whispers between kisses. “Hmm?”

“So good,” you simper, humming when he nips lightly at your mouth. “I’m so good.”

“What do they call you? Are you their little whore? Little pet? Hm?” he clutches the meat of your thigh suddenly, and your approving squeak is muffled by his tongue, wet, slippery, sloppy.

“Could you be good for me too?” he growls when you part, licking across your swollen lips. The sound of it, already so rough, so low, has you twitching. “Could you add one more to your little collection?”

“Yes,” you’re tugging him closer, writhing when his hand ghosts to cup you between the legs, firm, possessive, demonstrative. “Y-Yes, yes, I can be good.”

“Can you be quiet?” he adds with a hushed laugh, raising his eyebrows at your fevered expression as you continue to scrabble at him, yanking on his jacket, his wrist, begging and twisting. “You have to—shh,” he shushes you when you keen, pressing his fingers closer to your pussy through Yoongi’s sweatpants, feeling for your heat and finding it easily, “You’re too fucking loud. You have to be quiet, or else—“

“She’s very vocal.”

You almost cry out in pleasure when you hear the voice that breaks through the cop’s low mumbling, arching and trembling against the wall. But he told you to hush, so you bite down on your lip, vision swimming with sweet obedience and heady recognition.

“I can see that.” The dark-eyed officer chuckles after a beat, his hand slipping from your apex despite your muffled, disappointed noise and attempts to pull him back. “Shocked nobody’s been called in for domestic disturbance around yours yet.” He pulls his hand from you easily, leaning back and turning to better address the owner of voice behind him.

Arousal skitters up your spine, coiling in your limbs, at the way Namjoon flicks you a momentary, disapproving look, his jaw ticking. Is he thinking of punishing you for this? You hope so. But his plump lips curve into an overly-pleasant smile, eyes crinkling as they cast to the other man.

“By all means, don’t let me interrupt.” He says smoothly. “You seemed to be enjoying yourself.”

“I’d hate to get in any real trouble,” is the reply, just as cool. “Have to set an example for Yugyeom, right?”

Your body itches. Everything is warm, soft, bubbly, and the heat of the man in front of you is like a furnace, the hot center of your universe. You sneak your fingers into his belt loops, scooting him closer to you, and he allows it with a vaguely smug expression.

Namjoon’s smile doesn’t move, frozen on his face. “Your border is a few miles north from here, isn’t it? You’re cutting it a little close, don’t you think? Jackson?”

Jackson blinks, straightening. He grabs your wandering hand by the wrist from where it had travelled around his side to his zipper (how on earth did it get there, you wonder with a snicker), holding it up and away from his body with one wide palm. You whine through your nose. “We’re just passing through.” His tone has turned more serious. Respectful. “Avoiding the main roads. Won’t be spending more than a few hours this close to your territory.”

“Passing through?”

Jackson hesitates.

“We’re leaving, Namjoon.”

Namjoon’s smile falls, curving into a confused frown, his brow creasing. “What do you mean, you’re leaving?”

“It’s too slim here. We’re not having any luck lately. It’s my turn to disappear anyways.”

You press up against Jackson’s side, trying to slide your other hand up under his shirt, but he catches that one, too, holding you prisoner against the tacky feel of leather and his body heat. You mewl pointedly, hands straining, rocking against him. What’s he so busy for? Can’t he see that you need it? Your mouth waters. You need it…Up against this wall, bent over—you imagine Namjoon joining in and the thought has you aching. You can always prove how good you are. Can always show your new friend how good you can be for him.

Namjoon’s frown takes his lips with it, bares his teeth in a grimace. “You can’t be serious. What, already? What are we supposed to do?”

Jackson cocks his head in your direction and returns your sly grin with a raise of his eyebrows, briefly looking you over with an expression that makes you wet. You hum, trying to send him psychic requests for touching, kissing, biting through your locked gaze.  

“Looks like you’re already doing something.”

“She…she was an accident.”

“And here I thought you and Jin had finally made nice.” Jackson looks back to Namjoon, neck lolling with disbelief. He lets go of your hands, spinning and suddenly disentangling you from him in one smooth motion. He pushes your arms to your own chest and looks you dead in the eyes again. Hours pass where you’re lost in his eyes, caught in the endless depths of obsidian, floating in nothing and everything.

“Don’t. Move.”

A shiver wracks your body violently, and you have to throw yourself against the wall just to avoid crumpling to the ground with the pleasure that comes with obeying. You won’t move, you won’t move. You can do that for him. You press yourself to the brick, shuddering and panting quietly, eyes trained on his frame, watching how the world seems to heave with your every breath, lends him and Joon halos, makes heat spark and flare inside of you.

“You’re not actually leaving. We need you up north. Who’s taking your place?”

Jackson shakes his head, craning back to Namjoon. His tongue flits to wet his lips, gaze flicking upwards. You can think of better places his tongue could be. “No one. All of us are headed southwest.”

“Jaebum has better sense.”

“Back when it was an option.”

“You can’t just fucking leave, Jackson, we need cover. Now more than ever.”

“Wasn’t that the point of Jungkook?”

Ohh, Jungkook. You like Jungkook. Jungkook would take you. Press you up against the wall again, like when you met, but this time…you’re threatening to drool. Not moving is really hard.

“Jungkook is a kid. They’ll notice eventually. Jin isn’t thinking about the long term.”

“Then you’ll have to move anyways. You can’t just stubborn your way through everything, Namjoon.”

Namjoon’s smile returns, but it’s tight, dangerous. He looks like a predator. It’s a good look, makes you warm and wet all over, but you know better than anyone how to smooth it off him.

“I appreciate your opinion.”

“Good. I like giving it.”

“Stay out of my territory.” He pulls the phrase through his grin, low and heavy with threat. “If I catch any of you with so much as a toe over the line, I’ll pull you apart.”

“Wasn’t planning on it. Like I said, we’re just passing through. Thought we’d grab one for the road in between territories.” Jackson flashes you another glance and you shiver. “…I won’t say anything about her, though. For you.”

“I told you she was an accident. You know times are tough.”

“I don’t agree with taking them like this. I don’t know anyone who does.”

“It’s temporary.”

Jackson shrugs.

“I’ll leave her with you anyway.” He says finally, with a sniff. “From the smell of her, you’ve got enough to worry about with just the two of you involved.”

He ruffles the back of his hair as he starts to walk. Namjoon doesn’t step aside for him, only watching as he gets close. When he comes within distance, he reaches forward and takes his arm. It’s weirdly gentle, familiar. You wish he’d grab you instead. Less gently would be preferable. Be nice if you could move, also.

“Tell me someone is staying.” Namjoon pleads. His eyes are genuine as he searches the other man’s. “Someone, anyone. Tell me we’ve still got cover. That the riots won’t reach us.”

Jackson slowly, hesitantly, places his hand on top of Namjoon’s.

“…You said it yourself. Times are tough, Joon.” He replies, quiet. “I’m sorry.”

This time, when he moves to walk past, both hands slipping from his arm, Namjoon angles his body to the side to allow him the space to continue.

“By the way,” Jackson adds after a beat, “You might want to check the ‘most wanted’ lists for up north. I could be wrong, but I think you’ve got one more problem.”

Namjoon’s head drops into a defeated nod, worrying his lower lip through his teeth as Jackson turns the corner out of sight, back towards the entrance.

Don’t move, don’t move, don’t move. A particularly violent shudder courses through you and you whine at the feeling of disobedience, but your body is shaking, breath coming in irregular pants. You’ve broken out in a sweat, your entire frame twitching and needy. Namjoon’s form ahead of you has you wanting, knowing he could make it better, he could kiss and lick and bite and touch and fondle and you need him to. But he only stands there, brow furrowed at the concrete beneath his feet, scratching at the back of his neck distractedly.

“N-Namjoon,” you whisper before you can stop yourself, feeling a thrill race through you when he freezes. Jackson said you needed to be quiet, so you don’t dare say much else, but when Namjoon looks up and meets your eye with a steely glare, you bite back a whimper.

“And you,” he says, low. “What do you have to say for yourself, hm?”

You only watch him, shivering.

“Speak,” he commands.

“Please, please, Namjoon,” you’re begging, babbling loosed from your lips in a tidal wave, “Please, I’m so hot, I need, I need you, I’m so warm, Namjoon, I need—“

“Were you going to let him fuck you?”

“I—“

“Were you. Going to let Jackson fuck you?”

“….I…”  your mouth goes dry. At his scathing look you crumble. “Y-yes, yes, I wanted—“

“You were going to let him bite you?”

Your voice has become small, hesitant, but the surface of your skin still buzzes and every time you answer him, pleasure rushes up your spine. “Yes.”

“After I told you not to.”

“I’m hazed,” you whine, shuffling your feet, squeezing your thighs together.

He shakes his head, casting his glance to the side with an expression that morphs into desperation mirroring your own. “…Fuck.”

Yes. Yes, exactly. You concur.

“Come—” He gestures, but the movement doesn’t even register until you’ve already thrown yourself into his outstretched arm, nuzzling into his shirt, pressing as much of you against you as you can manage.

“—here,” he cuts off with a shocked wheeze when you slide your palm down past the front of his pants, rubbing for his cock through his jeans. A thrill runs through you at the realization that he isn’t soft under there. You growl. He grabs for your wrists, shaking, eyes wide as he tries to meet yours. “Hey, whoah, no—fuck, goddamn it.” “Naaaaaamjooon,” you complain. “I was gonna let you fuck me, too…”

“I can see that.” His voice is strangled. He pauses, grip briefly tightening over your wrists and you purr at the feeling.

“Get in the car,” he says finally.

“You could haze me more to get in the car,” you waggle your eyebrows at him, chuckling under your breath at the bubbliness of the world in the corners of your vision.

“Or I could tell you to get in the fucking car and then you just do it.”

“I’ll do something fucking for you, Namjoon.”

“Get. In the car.” He sounds strained, but you’ll take it. Eventually, he’ll give you what you want. You don’t even have to worry about it! You stumble with him to the car, giggling when he tries to usher you into the passenger’s side and avoid the way you’re trying to pull him on top of you.

By the time he comes around the other side to sit behind the wheel, he’s already chattering to himself under his breath. He does like to talk a lot.  

“Get Hoseok to pull some strings with one of his, get those clothes bought, look up the wanted section—wanted? What the fuck does that have to do with anything? Godammit, Jackson—gotta give this time to wear off. Maybe we can sneak you past Yoongi. Maybe he’s sleeping. God, I hope he’s sleeping.”

Your hands are wandering again. Drifting over the center console as the car jerks roughly under you and starts speeding smoothly into the sunset. It’s way more interesting to you, what’s happening inside the vehicle. Your fingers dance over to Namjoon’s lap, trailing, watching his face for any sign that he’s going to stop you. His jaw clenches again and he throws you a grim glance.

“Don’t think about it.”

“Think about what.”

“You know what.”

“Taking your cock out?” You clarify innocently, watching with interest the shuddering inhale he takes. “Putting your cock in my mouth?”

“Exactly that.” His teeth are gritted.

“Tasting the tip?” you continue, curious, brushing a palm against his crotch, feeling triumphant at the way the fabric stirs, the way he shifts underneath you. “Or deeper?” Your mouth isn’t working exactly the way you’d like, you’re slurring pretty hard, but you’re already drooling at the thought of sucking him off.

“I’m trying to fucking drive,” he whines, and the sound takes you aback slightly, watching his brow crease in frustration. Consent. Namjoon likes consent. He likes it when you ask.

“Can I suck your dick?” You ask with a polite smile, delighted with yourself for figuring him out so quickly. “Namjoon?” His hips rise of their own volition, stuttering. He doesn’t reply beyond a sharp breath and you frown. Not a ‘no’. But not a yes.

Wait a minute. You’re being so silly. You’ve forgotten the most important part!

“Can I suck your dick, sir?...”

He growls.

“No.” he says. You pout. You did so well, and this is what you get for it. You’re a good girl, why is he going to act like this?

“But I—“

“No buts.” He snaps. “Hands to yourself. Don’t move until we get home.”

Gold dust bursts beneath your eyelids, gathers under your skin, slinks up your throat, and you lean back into the car to watch it curl up through the atmosphere. Your hands are by your side. Where they belong. Where they’ve always been. You barely even notice how hard Namjoon is breathing.

By the time you get home, the soft lights and rounded corners of the world have faded some—not enough to be gone, but enough that your attention has returned to the wetness between your legs. You’re so wet. There’s even a patch forming on Yoongi’s sweatpants. You hope he won’t mind. You recall the way he licked you up in the diner and shudder. He definitely won’t mind.

Namjoon leads you quickly out of the car and up the stairs to the apartment, refusing to look at you, eyes wild, brows furrowed, nostrils flaring and jaw working. He looks like he’s thinking about lots of important things. One of them ought to be how good you’ve been, and how much you need him to touch you, but you’ll let him come to that conclusion himself.

He halts violently in the front hall eyes wide.

“Shit.”

“…Namjoon?” Yoongi’s voice comes from the living room, sounding surprised, almost…guilty?

Namjoon immediately takes a few steps forward, body angled between you and the room.

 You peer around him to snag a peek anyways. Yoongi stares back at you from his position on the couch, belly down and hunched over something black. The bags under his eyes are almost a weird shade of purple, they’re so dark. He looks like he’s dying, drawn and fixated. When your gazes meet, his tongue slips over his lips, slow, heady. You whimper before you’re even aware you’re doing it.

“Really? Yoongi?” Namjoon sounds exasperated. Worn thin.

“Really yourself,” Yoongi bites back, but his tone is gravelly. “When you said you were going shopping I thought it would be for longer than five minutes.”

“On the couch?”

Yoongi’s upper row of teeth suddenly bare in a lopsided grin with a mild chuckle. “Not the worst thing to happen on the couch. Right?”

His smile drops suddenly, nostrils flaring. A shiver crawls up your spine as you watch his hips rock forwards and his eyes flutter back in his head. “A-ah, fuck. What the fuck have you two been doing?...”

It isn’t until you feel Namjoons arm raising to halt you at your chest that you realize you’ve been scooting forward in a trance, trying to catch a closer look at the fabric that Yoongi presses his face into now with a low groan.

“Yoongi…” Joon swallows, hard, “You should go back in your room.”

“She’s fucking hazed, isn’t she, Joon? Fuck, she’s so wet,” he continues to hiss under his breath, as if to himself. “Fuck, she’s so wet.”

This time you can see his arm shift, can hear a slick noise from underneath him, his breath catching. His jeans are hanging a little low on his hips, baring a black strip of underwear, you realize, and with that realization comes understanding. The fabric is Namjoon’s old hoodie. He’s got it pinned to the couch beneath him. When he nuzzles into it, you recognize the faded pattern from the hem brushing his nose. It’s upside down, so that his face is where…where your pussy was.

“It was a mistake,” Namjoon says while your world spins dizzyingly with arousal.

“Hmm…” Yoongi grunts, impossibly low in his throat. “Lots of those.” He doesn’t sound fully cognizant of what he’s saying. It’s absent, slurred. You see why when he twists his head again, mouth lolling open to lap secretively at the hoodie, his tongue pointed and firm. Arousal slips heat down your back, between your legs when you spot his bared teeth. Long, sharp, glistening with saliva as he exhales shakily. Oh, yes. That’s what you want.

Namjoon’s arm presses against you and he takes a half a step back, taking you with him even though you don’t really want to walk backwards. The way Yoongi tucks his head into the hoodie, his hair splaying against the fabric, inhales loudly, humps forward, hips curling with a sloppy sound that indicates just how wet he is in his own palm—it reminds you of an animal.

“Gonna bite holes in the couch, Joon,” he warns thick, muffled. “Mmm…I’m going to lose my fucking mind. She’s fucking hazed. God, I-I can’t do this.”

“It’s only been a day.” Namjoon’s voice is strained. You cast a curious look at him, but immediately your eye is drawn to the tent growing in his pants. He tries to move it, tries to casually tuck it out of view, but it’s too late, the damage is done, and a huff of desire escapes from your throat, eyes threatening to bulge out of your head. You like very much the way things are shaping up. “It’s only been a day—“

“Fuck. Fuck.”

“—We need to give her time to recover—“

Yoongi makes a noise that’s too close, too close, to a high-pitched whimper, his head still bent, hiding his face.

“Recover nothing, recover is bullshit,” he’s babbling, dark, frustrated, garbled by the pillows underneath him. “I need—“

“It’s not a good idea.”

“I need to be inside of her now, Namjoon.” Yoongi pulls his head back up, laying his cheek ontop of the hoodie. His eyes are blown wide, all traces of brown swallowed by obsidian, hooded and piercing as he meets your gaze, blazing a path straight through you. His delicate lips can barely keep his teeth at bay, bitten, abused pink playing peekaboo with glistening pinpricks of ivory. His jet hair spiders out across his forehead, stuck in places with sweat. “I need to drain her.”

“It isn’t a good—“

“I’ll kill you.” It fights its way past his lips, stuttering and stammering, like an addict denied his high, lent credence by the way he digs his nails into the sofa, ruts into his own hand. “I—I’ll, Joon, I’ll fucking kill you.”

There’s a pause of silence, punctuated only by your breathing and the soft fabric noises as Yoongi humps the couch.

“…No, you won’t.” Namjoon’s voice is soft. Quiet. He sighs through his nose, long and weary.

Yoongi opens his mouth to reply, but he stills at the same time you see movement in the corner of your eye. A hand drifting to the hem of Namjoon’s second hoodie. Its twin, on the other side. Shuffling its grip up, taking the hoodie and the scarf with it, peeling it up and over your head with all the gentleness of a caretaker. You can’t look away from Yoongi. He’s stopped moving entirely, too-bright eyes watching you from over the pillows, a snake in the grass ready to strike. You don’t think he’s breathing. Namjoon’s hands return, slipping long fingers beneath the elastic waistband. He shucks them off you, helping you step out by placing your hand on his shoulder. One leg at a time. You sway a little, completely nude, standing in the living room like a sacrificial offering to the heathen gods. And the intensity with which the creature on the couch watches you, your chest heaving with heady breath, tells you that analogy isn’t far off.

You next feel warmth at your hand, wandering fingers drifting to clutch yours in a show of unexpected softness.

“We aren’t going to hurt her,” Namjoon says, fighting to keep a tremble out of his voice. Is it excitement? Fear? “We’re going to take care of her. Right, Yoongi?”

“Fuck,” Yoongi whispers, eyes wide.

“We aren’t going to hurt her.”

“No.” Yoongi echoes.

“We’re going to take care of her.”

“Yes.”

“I will use force if I have to.”

“Mm.”

Namjoon nods, once. The hand at yours disappears, reappearing with a sudden grip of your hair, tugging your head back.

“You wanted so badly to suck cock, baby,” Namjoon snarls into your ear, sending hot breath coasting against your neck, making you squeal when he yanks unmercifully, his grip burning against your scalp, “Here’s your fucking chance. You’re going to take Yoongi down your throat like a good slut. I don’t want you coming up for breath. Do you understand?”

“I understand, sir,” you mewl immediately, scrabbling upwards, delicate fingers flying to his with no effect. The switch has left you reeling with whiplash, but it makes you shake all the same. All the same, it makes you ache. He releases you, shoving forward, and you stumble, catching yourself on the arm of the couch, just beside Yoongi’s head.

Yoongi still hasn’t moved. You slide to the front of the sofa, eyes trained on his, unable to keep down the feeling of being a steak in a lion’s den. But he uncurls from his position, turning to reveal his dick to you, head cocked, hands clutching the cushions on either side of his legs like he has half a mind to tear them to shreds.

You almost choke, just looking at him. Flushed a painful red from tip to base, bright veins bulging angrily, twitching in the cold air apart from his hand. Coated in precum, streaks shining in the light down what you can see of his lower belly, wet patches soaked through the bottom of his white shirt, glazing his cock. Under your stare, it oozes another dribble, and suddenly you’re famished.

“Please.”

It doesn’t register as a word until he shifts, legs widening, hands kneading. You look back to his face. He looks half out of his mind, eyes dark.

“Please.” He repeats, hoarse.

You’re already falling to your knees, jaw dropping opening with the sick plop of your tongue leaving the roof of your mouth, reaching for his thighs. His hips flex when you get close, easing his head past your lips and you can taste the heat before you even descend on him, sucking, laving at his fevered skin.

The noise he makes is sin, lust, and velvet. Not far from a purr. His hands don’t move from where they’re digging into the cushions, allowing you to take as much of him as you want, as much as you can. You fill your senses with him greedily; his taste, his smell, every twitch of his thighs and every bob of his cock into your mouth.

You feel wandering fingers trace your spine, curling around your ass, alighting to your dripping pussy with intent. When two push inside, eased tremendously by the seemingly endless slick that drips from your entrance, you arch into him.

“Y-You fuck her first,” Namjoon’s murmuring from behind as he presses his fingers into you, scissoring, stretching, curling seekingly. You hump against his hand, trying to push him deeper even as you suck Yoongi’s cock down your throat with a slavering eagerness. “Or-or maybe I do…M-maybe we…”

“Both,” Yoongi growls, sharp. A moan bubbles up around his member from your throat and his hips rise to meet the sensation, almost lazy if not for the way he shakes. You feel a hand curling into your hair less than gently, by your face, tugging your head a little to the side so that he can look you in the eye while you suckle at his head. He’s grinning, feral and distant. As your gazes lock, he scrunches his nose at you in a playful snarl.

“You have two holes for a reason, don’t you think?” he drawls past a slur. “Let’s see how wide we can stretch them.”

Behind you, Namjoon grunts deep in his throat and his pace stutters. “Sh-shit, that’s—“

“She wants it. You want it, don’t you? You want me in your ass. You want Namjoon in your cunt. Admit it.” He tsks, his tone dropping somehow lower. “Admit it, and we’ll prepare you first.”

He pulls you off his cock with a fierce tug of your locks caught between his knuckles, teeth baring again in a half smirk, half grimace as he watches you take deep gasping breaths with all the tenderness of a hawk surveying its squeaking prey.

“I—I do.”

“Little whore.” The vampire in front of you hisses, murmurs, but the thumb brushing against your swollen lips is akin to fond. “I know you do. You want Namjoon’s fingers in your tight little hole?”

You’re nodding into his palm, trying to shift your weight more comfortably on your knees. Either he doesn’t notice or he’s pretending not to, perfectly fine with allowing you to arch, crane. Twitching when Namjoon’s fingers bump against those perfect places inside of you with slick, overly wet noises.

“You want him to stretch you wide for me. You want to beg us for it.”

“I do. I want it.”

“I don’t know that she can take it,” Namjoon mumbles, hoarse, but his fingers give you one more pump, squelching into your arousal, before they’re sliding slowly out, tracing up back towards your spine.

“She’ll fucking take it.” Yoongi’s leading you back to his cock, pressing your cheek to his strained member. His head throws back with a low groan when you obligingly lick up as much of his skin as you can, tasting salt and feeling the heat under your tongue. “She’ll take it and she’ll love it.”

“I’ll take it so good,” you agree between laves, between sloppy kisses and slurps. “I’ll take it.”

Warmth presses experimentally against the tight ring of muscles at your ass. When you tense thoughtlessly, it immediately disappears, Namjoon exhaling shakily.

“I don’t think—“ he mumbles.

“I think,” Yoongi snaps. “Stop fucking thinking, Namjoon. Just do it.”

There’s a pause, a shuffling from behind you, the sound of a bottlecap popping open. The fingers return, and this time you make sure to roll towards them, humming your approval as you lathe up and down Yoongi’s member sloppily. This time, you recognize a much slicker feeling—he must have found lube. Just for you. How nice of him. One digit presses deeper, sinking into you and you huff a sigh at the strange sensation; even with the lube, it hurts, just a little, just a sting, but it’s warm and smooth, filling you up. Another finger pad rubs comforting circles into your clit as he pumps his finger steadily into your asshole. Yoongi purrs with appreciation at the both of your compliances, hips twitching.

“Mm, yeah, stretch her good. Stretch her so good, so I can slip right inside of that tight little ass.”

Namjoon introduces a second finger and you have to stop sucking Yoongi’s cock to rest your head in his lap, keening at the intrusion. It burns, it burns, but the thought of taking his member inside of you, the thought of taking both of them, has you shaking with anticipation.

“Hoseok’s gonna be so mad,” Yoongi mutters, watching you whimper and carding lithe fingers through your hair. “His loss.”

Namjoon’s abrupt chuckle is humorless and short. “Hoseok is in big trouble for that stunt he pulled last night.”

“Hmm? What stunt?” The corner of Yoongi’s mouth twitches upwards in a knowing grin. A hand explodes against your ass, forcing you to jump, working yourself harder on Namjoon’s fingers, and you moan thickly.

“Tell him.”

“H-Hoseok came in the room while I was being pun-punished,” You stutter as Namjoon slides a third finger into your quivering hole, stretching you further with a deep grunt. “He-he fucked my chest.”

Yoongi chuckles. “Shh,” he hums, mock-comforting, stroking your hair with one hand as his other drifts to his own member, teasing at the purpled, leaking head absently, drifting to lock around his base. “I know. I know. Did you like it? Hm? You did, didn’t you? I bet it made you so fuckin’ wet for Hobi’s cock.”

He makes a thick noise deep in his throat. “Namjoon.”

“Gently,” is the response. Namjoon’s fingers slip out of you, even as your body clamps down on him as if trying to convince him deeper, and the rush of pleasure as they’re removed has you shuddering. “Go slow.”

But Yoongi’s gripping your hair, patting your cheek, is excited and rushed. Feverish.

“Turn around. Turn around,” he urges.

Obediently, you sit up shakily, assisted by an arm slipping beneath yours, and turn to face Namjoon. At some point, he’s taken his shirt off, unbuttoned his pants to better stroke at the bulge growing at his crotch. His eyes are hooded, his lips are red from his own worrying. He flicks his eyebrows at you when Yoongi’s hand comes up with a sharp crack on your asscheek, jolting you forward. You can hear him shuffling out of his pants entirely behind you.

“Ready?” Joon asks.

You nod, leaning up and seeking out his lips again. He kisses you back briefly, hands alighting on your waist to encourage you down. Yoongi’s hands drift over your ass, your thighs, tugging you closer, pulling you to meet the hot skin of his lap. His fingers as they dance over your cheeks, shifting you open so that he can rub the tip of his dick against your opening. The hot, slick feeling of his velvet head finally breaching the tight ring of muscle has you gasping, scrabbling at Namjon’s arms.

Yoongi is definitely bigger than Namjoon’s fingers. As you sink down on him, impaling yourself on his cock, you clutch forward at Namjoon desperately, mouth open to allow for the breathless mewls escaping your throat. Behind you, Yoongi grunts and hums directly into your ear, tsking through his teeth.

“Are you okay, baby?” Namjoon murmurs, almost sweet if not for the feverishly intent way he watches his elder penetrate you. “Is that still good?”

“Big,” you hiccup, unconsciously trying to shift your hips to accommodate the girth as it parts your walls. “It-it’s big.”

“I know,” he soothes. He keeps up petting your cunt, brushing your clit, rubbing your tits. He leans forward, pressing soothing kisses to your collarbone, up your neck, the edge of your mouth. “I know. You tell me if it’s too much.”

“Oh fuck,” Yoongi growls, low, when he finally bottoms out, sheathing himself completely inside you. “Oh fuck. God, you take it so good. You take it so well. Are you sure Jin’s boys didn’t do this for you?”

“N-No.” You’re glowing at the praise, at the attention, as you adjust. The pain quiets to an ache the longer you sit there, but you won’t deny the twitching in your limbs, the leaking of your pussy. It isn’t taking you too long to warm to the idea of taking both of them at the same time.

“No? No, just us, hm? Think they’ll be jealous, Namjoon?” Yoongi catches your earlobe with a bite that’s a little too sharp, humming.

“Jealous that we got to have so much of baby? Oh, yeah.” Namjoon mumbles, kissing you deep. His tongue slides across yours, sweet and gentle. Your lips smack obnoxiously when you part, the sound so loud in this enclosed space between your faces. “Jealous that she’s ours.”

“Is that right?” Yoongi’s hips move experimentally, thrusting shallow, and you moan at the sensation. It’s like he’s reaching through you to your guts, and you love it. “Are you ours? Hmm?”

“Y-yours,” you choke, humping with him.

Eyes caught in yours, Namjoon fishes his cock out of his underwear, giving the thick length a pump, two, before he’s edging closer. He’s kissing you again as he sinks into you, and you melt into the bliss of being held so intimately, so gently. Yoongi at your back, rocky steadily into your ass, Joon at your front, thrusting into your wet pussy, both humming and grunting with the effort as you writhe helplessly between them. You’re so full, so full, disallowed from resting between thrusts with the alternating rhythm they quickly fall into.

“F-fuck,” Namjoon growls. “So good, you’re doing so good for us, baby.”

When he thrusts especially hard, you can feel it criminally deep inside of you and you arch, hips lifting to meet him. The feeling of both of them fucking into you simultaneously, breathing into your ears, moaning, has you roiling in ecstasy, strong, warm arms holding you up, moving you against them, caressing breasts and rolling your clit.

“I-I’m not going to fucking last…” Joon warns.

Yoongi chuckles breathily, licking his lips so sloppily it’s loud.

“Cum in her,” he demands, hoarse, “Give her everything. I want to feel it.”

 There’s the sound of the lock turning at the front door. Namjoon’s pace quickens with a groan. He starts pounding into your cunt, leaning over you with his brow furrowed, lips parted, sweat making his neck, his cheeks, glisten. His cock fucks so smoothly into your cunt, stretching you around his girth, bottoming out and slipping until he finally settles for rocking up deep into you. The sounds his pelvis makes as he fucks you perfectly are loud, stuttering.

“Gonna, gonna,” he mumbles, licking up your lips.

“Hoo!” Hoseok’s voice calls from the front hall, “What is going on in…here…?”

Joon stills inside you with a violent thrust, cock buried deep inside of your guts, pulsing as he paints your walls with wet warmth, exhaling a grunt into the crook of your neck. Yoongi stills completely, moaning low in your ear.

There’s a pause, punctuated only by the heavy breathing of everyone present. Namjoon presses a sweet kiss to your mouth, humping once, twice, sliding his spent cock from your gaping hole with a hiss.

When he moves to look to Hoseok, you get to see him too.

Standing in the hall, a gym bag slung over his shoulder. His hair’s wet at his forehead with sweat. Under your stare, he licks his lips. His eyes are already smoldering, congenial grin faded into a hungry look.

“You guys having fun?” he asks, falsely conversational.

“No, it’s the worst.” Yoongi’s deadpan reply doesn’t earn him more than a flick of the eyes. “You should probably go back to the studio.”

“Sorry, Hope,” Namjoon interjects softly, still panting. “It—we didn’t mean to go this far.”

“I did.” Yoongi interrupts again in a whisper. You jolt at the feeling of his hot, slick tongue suddenly wetting a path up your neck to your ear. You squirm, both of you moaning quietly when you jostle his cock inside you.

Hoseok shrugs, lips curving into a pout. He slips his gym bag off his shoulder, tossing it carelessly to the ground as Joon flops to the side of the couch, far enough to be out of the way but close enough to keep a discerning eye on Yoongi.

“Well. I’m here now…” Hoseok says low, stalking closer. You’re suddenly very aware of how lewd you must look right now. Yoongi buried in your ass, Joon’s cum leaking out of your wrecked pussy.

“Hmmm about that…Hoseok misbehaved, didn’t he?” Yoongi murmurs into your ear, his breath tickling your neck. He shifts, beginning to roll into you again, stealing your breath. “Left you high and dry. What do you say we leave him?”

It’s impossible to concentrate, between his smooth fucking into your asshole, the way Joon’s rapidly cooling cum runs down your cunt, the smoldering glare that Hoseok throws your way.

“We can make him watch.” Yoongi’s next thrust is overly excited, and you jerk back into him with a loud moan, back arching as his cock parts your tight hole and slips up into your depths. It dislodges more of the cum inside you, encouraging it to ooze out in a fresh glob painting your slit. “Hmmm…we can make him watch and he can fucking cream all over himself in his ridiculous fucking pants. Make him clean it up, suck it up out of the fabric, no hands.”

“You wouldn’t dare.” Hoseok’s smile is not friendly. It’s dark, dangerous—not far removed from an animalistic sneer.

“You don’t think I would?” is the glib response, heavy with promise, punctuated by a grunt when you clench around him. Hoseok’s smile disappears.

“Fuck, fuck,” Yoongi pants into your skin, tsking through his teeth. “What a fucking idea. What a fucking idea. You want to see it, too, don’t you?”

“P-promised,” you stammer, mind reeling, toes curling.

“What was that, slut?” Yoongi snarls, a free hand curving around your neck. Namjoon’s eyes dart to his fingers with an expression that betrays how ready he is to save you, even as he continues to recover from his position on the floor, but Yoongi doesn’t tighten his grip more than enough to choke your words and make it difficult to slur through them.

“He, H-Hoseok promised, he promised, t-to fuck me.”

“He promised to fuck you.”

“Mm,” you whimper, nodding, vision swimming with heady pleasure.

“You can’t get enough, is that what you’re telling me?”

“N-no.” You moan when he starts to thrust even harder into you.

“Never enough cock for you. Never stuffed full enough, never satiated. It would take all of us, wouldn’t it, and still you’d beg for more. Tell me I’m wrong.

Come here,” he barks, fevered, without waiting for your reply. “Get over here.”

Automatically, Hoseok moves, the edges of his expression softening as Yoongi’s haze pulls a veil over his eyes. He doesn’t even get a full step forward before Yoongi is commanding him again.

“Down. Knees.”

Hoseok’s legs buckle at the knees, his head flopping forward, eyes fixated on the unbelievably erotic sight of Yoongi’s cock disappearing into you and reappearing covered in juices and lube, the way your pussy weeps clear arousal and thick white seed down your thighs, soaking into the couch beneath you.

“Tell her you’re sorry.”

“I’m sorry.” It escapes his mouth easily enough, but his lips twitch in a faint grimace afterwards, as though the words leave a bad taste on his tongue. Yoongi fucks harder into you, before grunting and suddenly grasping your hips with both hands, one on either side. You can feel him twitching deep inside of you, but he doesn’t cum yet, just rocks upwards, curls absently against your back.

“How sorry?”

“So sorry.”

“Prove it. Show her. How fucking sorry you are.”

Hoseok’s eyes flit upwards, catching you in their endless chocolatey depths. You feel warmth, palms, curling over your thighs, holding you splayed in front of him with long hands. Maintaining eye contact, he leans forward, jaw inching open, tongue presenting itself, before he makes contact with your pussy, licking a long, hot stripe upwards. A low moan claws its way out of your chest, your hips thrusting forwards and halted by their hands, Yoongi’s on your waist, Hoseok’s pinning you to Yoongi, forcing you to take it as he starts to eat you in earnest. He slurps up Namjoon’s cum like he daren’t waste a drop of it, sucking it off your lips, sliding his tongue everywhere but your clit, rubbing through your folds, dipping like a man possessed into your cunt to retrieve as much of it as he can taste. You convulse with every flick, humming and whining, sweating, straining against their grip as Hoseok tilts his head, maneuvering this way and that, as though determined to lick up every trace of Namjoon from you.

“That’s it,” Yoongi growls thickly. “That’s it, just like that. Make her cum and I’ll let you inside her.”

 The response is immediate. Hoseok forces your thighs apart even further, lips finding your clit easily and attaching with a decadent slurp so loud and so obnoxious your ears ring, holding you down as you shake and arch into him, moaning unintelligible pleas for mercy as he sucks you up like his last meal. Your body wracks, shivering, and you hardly even realize how near you are until you’re finally shoved off the precipice. You’re cumming, hard, scrabbling for purchase on Yoongi’s thighs, the couch beneath you, Hoseok’s fingers. The scream that tears itself from your throat is raw, over-extended and cuts out entirely at the end as pleasure races through your entire body, forcing you to convulse and shake.

Yoongi’s steady fountain of curses barely registers until you realize he’s begging just as painfully, as desperately as you are.

“Fuck, Hoseok,” he hiccups, “Fuck, hurry up, get—get in her, fuck, I can—I’m gonna—“

“Was that nice?” Hoseok preens as he pulls away. His mouth and chin are shining, glazed with your arousal. He licks absently at it, slipping the waistband of his sweatpants down teasingly, catching your eyes with a hazy, prideful smirk. “Was that good? You want Hobi to fuck you now, pretty girl? You forgive me yet, hm?”

“Stop fucking around,” Yoongi bites, hands dashing to your thighs from around your back. He opens your folds for you, presenting you even more prettily to the other vampire, who watches you twitch with satisfaction and desire. “Come fuck the communal whore.”

Hoseok’s cock is thinner than Namjoon’s, but it’s longer. When he lines up with your entrance, guided easily by Yoongi’s fingers, and presses in with one smooth motion, you release a deep exhale, head thrown back over Yoongi’s shoulder.

“There you go. There you fucking go.” He encourages in a mumble, hands raising, one to your neck to caress and fondle, the other to your hip, to steady as he and Hoseok start thrusting in tandem.

Hobi’s hips flow into you effortlessly, curling, stroking the inside of your cunt with precision that leaves you breathless. The difference between the fevered way Yoongi now rams unevenly into your ass, drawing thick breaths through clenched teeth, has you clenching around the both of them.

You feel something against your palm, and you turn to look, meeting Namjoon’s eyes. He watches you caught between his brothers, expression heavy. He wraps his fingers around yours, and you realize his other hand is curled around his own dick, stroking himself to the time of Yoongi’s thrusts. He leans his head back, staring at you past hooded eyelids, plush lips parted in quiet huffs as he twitches and releases again, small spurts up his chest, decorating his abdomen. The sight of him, shining with sweat and cum, pleasuring himself as you bounce, filled up and defiled, makes you cry out, wrapping one thigh around Hosoeok’s ass.

“Gonna fill up this pretty ass,” Yoongi hisses, “Gonna fill you up so good, fuck.”

“Good girl,” Hobi soothes through his grin, “Good, just like that, take it, yeah, take it.”

Yoongi’s pace becomes even more erratic, even more uneven, his voice giving way to high pitched mewls and low grunts, burying his cock inside you with a growl.

“N-Nam—“ he pants suddenly, arching, pressing his lower half to your back.

Namjoon sits up with a rush, hand disentangling from yours to reach upwards, just over your shoulder, and you can feel the force as Yoongi’s head is thrown backwards into the cushion of the sofa. His prick twitches and throbs, finally emptying himself into the cavern of your asshole, filling you with wet warmth. Hobi pushes forward one last, long drawn-out time, and cums inside your cunt with a huffed breath almost of surprise.

Behind you, you can hear Yoongi hissing, growling, whimpering. You can feel the struggle as he thrashes against Namjoon’s hold, his fingernails beginning to dig into your hips.

“You fucker,” he spits, seething. “I’m so fucking hungry, you son of a bitch. It’s your fucking fault, you fuck.”

“Shh, Yoongi,” Namjoon soothes, brows knitted together. “Shh, I know. I know.”

“Fuck you, Namjoon, let me drain her fucking dry. You’re such a cunt.”

Hoseok slides out of you, watching your pussy leaking fresh cum with absent satisfaction, brushing a thumb against a flushed lip to collect some of it. He leans up, smearing it across your mouth and you lean forward into him, sucking the digit into your mouth with an exhausted moan.

“Hobi, get her off him.” Namjoon says, sharp.

“Alright, alright. Come on, pretty girl,” Hoseok urges gently, wrapping his palms underneath your ass to help lift you upwards. You try to prop your legs up under yourself, but you’re so sore, so used up, they’re almost completely useless. Yoongi’s member leaves your ass with a plop, his release already beginning to ooze down your thigh. His hands are hesitant to leave your waist, but eventually trail off, obeying hushed encouragement from Namjoon. Hoseok pulls you to stand, into his still-clothed chest, propping you up on your feet and letting you lean against him.

“Can you stand?” he murmurs into your ear. You’re shaky, disoriented, clutching everything you can reach of him. You shake your head ‘no’, burying your face into him, inhaling the comforting scent. “Okay.”

He slowly moves to collect his pants from the ground, keeping your hands on his shoulders as he bends. When he straightens, he pulls the soft material up your legs, wiping at the thick liquid flowing freely from your abused holes. When you flinch away at a slightly rougher tug, he apologizes quietly under his breath, craning to press a weirdly sweet kiss to your cheek.

“I’m gonna take her to get cleaned up,” he says over your shoulder, rubbing comforting circles into your lower back.

“Good,” Namjoon replies, distracted. Briefly, you feel a hand at your calf, stroking upwards in a soothing kind of manner. As Hoseok turns, leading you down to the hall, you catch a glimpse of Namjoon sitting beside Yoongi on the couch. They’re embracing now, both glistening, both panting. Their eyes are closed, Namjoon’s peacefully if not for the worry that creases his brow, Yoongi’s screwed tightly shut.

“Didn’t mean it.” You catch Yoongi’s deep mumble, choked with emotion, as he buries his face in Namjoon’s shoulder.

“I know. I know. It’s okay.” Namjoon’s hand brushes up his back reassuringly, even for how it shakes. “It’s okay. I’m sorry.”

 Hoseok leads you slowly to the bathroom, props you up in the shower. The space is too tight, too small, to comfortably fit both of you, but he gets down to business washing you clean with the kind of care you’d expect from someone who’s done it a million times before. He keeps you upright, sudsing you up, rinsing you down, keeping your hands on his shoulders, occasionally placing a steadying arm around your waist while he cleans the rest of you with lukewarm water. He hums while he works, some absent tune you don’t recognize.

“Namu seems to really like you,” he pipes up. “I saw that handholding jerkoff thing.” He shakes his head, chuckling under his breath. “What a sap.”

You don’t have anything to respond with, so he continues.

“He’s not the type to like people easy, you know.” He sighs through his nose, craning to catch your eye with a nod to indicate how serious he’s being. “None of us are. I don’t know what Yoongi thinks…or if he does right now.”

He straightens to continue rinsing your hair, taking the utmost amount of care to avoid getting soap in your eyes.  It feels nice. Warm.

“But if Namjoon likes you…I guess we’re going to have to take better care of you.”

There’s a pause.

“I am sorry.” He says finally. He sounds sincere. “For the tit job.”

Now you look up at him, too tired to really say or think much, but hoping he gets the expression you mean to send him. He grins, wide, and boops your nose with the loofah with a giggle.  

“It was really hot, though.” He adds, in a mock-defensive pout. “Really hot. I jacked off earlier today just thinking about it, you know. Shit, maybe I’m falling for you.”

That makes him laugh, his signature cackle bouncing off the tiles of the bathroom.

Previous   Masterlist         Next

[nonsensical-twistedriddles]

21 - noctambulist

hello hello ! i’m happy to see that you like my writing style and, of course we could be buddies (us newbies gotta stick together) o(TヘTo) くぅit took me a while to figure out the flow of this piece so hopefully you’ll end up liking what i’ve scrounged up for you ! good luck with yours too and stay safe! i’m worried i rushed the ending again hh

📝to note: this is a repost because the initial post somehow got deleted ! the “you” in this story will be taking up the mc role ! also, we’re past 100 followers for this blog ! thank you so much to everyone who’s been supporting me and reading my work, this means a whole lot to me・゜(。┰ω┰。).・゜i don’t have anything in mind right now for a special so, if it’s alright with everyone, i’d like to ask for a few suggestions in regards to this |ω；｀) i haven’t much of a clue on what to do to be honest since this is my first time having a writing blog｡

【 𝔫𝔬𝔠𝔱𝔞𝔪𝔟𝔲𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱 ; malleus draconia : “ do you, too, dream of me ? “ after returning you to your world, malleus can’t help but feel as though he has lost something. 】

★ warnings: angst, post-overblot ★ 🎵  playlist - i handpicked a few songs for you all to listen to while you read !  ★

━━━━━━━ ━━━━━━━ ━━━━━━━ ━━━━━━━

“You’re the only one who can do it,” the wind was playing with your hair, obscuring your face from his eyes though he knew that you were smiling at him. You always smiled at him. “I don’t-,” he starts but cuts himself off. His face scrunches up in pain and reluctance, making him look away in fear of seeing you disappointed. He tries again to tell you but every word in his mouth tastes like goodbye. His expression closes and suddenly he realizes he’s shaking.

Gingerly your fingers reach out to him, pausing when they’re merely inches away from his arms as if hesitating; thinking he’d break at their touch, until you’re finally pulling him into your warm embrace and he presses his cheek onto the top of your head. “I know,” you say tenderly. “I know,” Your arms squeeze him, telling him that you did know. The very thought of that makes his breath hitch and soon the tears he’s been trying desperately to hold back run down from his eyes and into your hair. 

“I know.”

——————————⋆

Memories came to him in half-formed faded dreams, leaving him bleary eyed and distant in the morning. He tries to keep going; attending his classes, eating lunch with his dorm members, doing and finishing his homework, wandering off into the abandoned parts of the premises; everything he did before, but his eyes muddle the world around him, giving him the impression that he’s not actually there but instead drifting into the undulating waves of a cold endless sea.

How are you?

The only time when he’s feeling alive is when he’s sleeping and dreaming. Most of them were about you or, well, how you were to him when he saw you and talked with you. He realizes now that, despite spending a lot of time with you in school, he didn’t know you as much as he thought he did. He could easily tell anyone what you looked liked if asked and deduced from the way you’d go out of your way just to hang out with him that you thought of him as your friend.

Was he your friend?

The question plagues him for days. Along with it, the subtle pressure to move on. Both are heavy weights on his shoulders and yet, he stubbornly refuses to entertain either, in fear of uncovering some dark twisted truth inside that’ll uncoil and taut the only connection he has of you left in him. 

Would you tell him?

——————————⋆

The panic comes to him in slow suffocating chunks, consuming his every breath until it tastes of nothing but ash and brimstone. He bellows as the world splits open, thrusting him into a cold and silent brightness that he can longer fill with the crying of his heart. Frightened by the emptiness and filled with a raging hellfire, he unfurls his shimmering leathery vans and lets the ground from under him crumble with a single beat. Thorns sprout out from the cracks, twisting, turning and slithering its way into the surrounding area, abetting the reverberating voice inside his head that dragooned him into engulfing the world in darkness, flames and thunderstorms.

As chaos ensued, he lets himself look up to the sky as if in search of something, or someone. “If I cannot transcend this emptiness and touch your hand一,” another voice, so broken and soft, whispered to him softly, “-then there is no need for this world to exist.”

——————————⋆

Hyperemotionality was a part of human composition. Nearly all of the fairies, believing themselves to have a higher sense of logicality when compared to their weaker counterparts, viewed this as nothing more than irrational detritus to be disposed of in order to keep the rationality and correctness of the mind but as time went on, converts started emerging from the masses with their strayed beliefs from the old philosophies, declaring that love (the most prominently destructive of all human emotion) was not something to be cast aside in arrogance and fear of the unknown.

He used to scoff at these nonconformists, thinking them foolish for fighting for something that inspired deformation of structure and irregularities— but then, he met you.

You were someone who let his guard down with gentleness and trust and made him experience things he has never experienced before.

He fell in love.

He slams his hand onto the wall, thump! There was no need to think of you now, not with the risk of him unwinding his thorned heart. Wiping out his mind of thoughts of you, he lets himself revert back to the shell of a living being he was left as and continues on with his day.

Can I come see you?

——————————⋆ 

Gentle hands press against the rough edged surface of his face, reaching out to him in his haze. “Malleus.” 

The voice is familiar, though for some reason he wasn’t sure where he’s heard it before. It calls to him again, louder and closer, enveloping him in warmth. He searches for its source frantically, afraid of losing it in the vastness until finally a shape emerges from the darkness. He blinks, his green beady eyes fixed on your relieved face smiling at him with tears running down your cheeks. “Y/N.” Your name comes out of him more like a question than a statement; his voice uncertain. You laugh as you press your forehead against his. “Yes.” you say, bringing his face closer until your noses touch. A moment passes before he exhales, laughing as you do with tears brimming the corner of his eyes.

He falls to his knees before you, shakily taking your hands and holding them to his face. The world blurs and mutes, leaving him with only the sight of you in front of him and the sound of your voice in his ears. He says your name again, this time easing himself into the recognition of the sound of it and knowing that there was nothing in the world beyond you and him in this moment.

——————————⋆ 

He was grateful for Lilia and the others for always being there to assist him. Their normalcy was an anchor that kept him from straying into the waters of contemplation. 

“Urgh, I think I’m coming down with something,” Sebek says from across the lunch table, looking undeniably pale and queasy. Silver flashes him a look of concern while Lilia, who was beside Malleus, perks up at this and smiles at Silver. “Is that so? Well, we can’t have you up and about now can we,” he says, “Why don’t you just call it a day and rest in your room. I’ll make sure to take care of you later and bring you some soup!”

Silver chokes, as if abruptly reminded of something. “You know what,” Sebek smiles nervously, “I was about to do that but now I think I’m starting to feel a little better.”

Sebek’s words, ‘-starting to feel a little better’ ring inside his head. It startles him at first, unsure of what it would do, but soon he lets out a small smile, for once feeling unbothered by the thought of it.

Are you feeling better as well?

——————————⋆ 

He emerges into a street filled with strange looking multicoloured vehicles in between what seems to be heavily windowed buildings that reflect him in all of his monstrous and scaly glory. He lets himself be awed by the peculiarity of its glaring surface for a moment before looking away and craning his neck around in search of the man you showed him with your memories. People around him point and shriek, some with phone cameras pointed at him, though he pays them no heed. You did warn him that his kind was not something regularly seen prancing about.

When he finally spots him in the crowd, gaping, not at him but at the figure in his hands, Malleus bends down and slowly reverts back in front of him with you sleeping peacefully in his arms. He didn’t know who he was; whether he was a familial relative or a friend or your lover but calmly, he walks up and brings his arms out to him. “They’re tired but okay,” he says, staring at the man before him who was already crying at the sight of you. Without needing to ask, Malleus gently hands you over to him. He thanks Malleus, though it was barely understandable with all the sobbing that he was doing, then brushes the hair out of your face. He watches the two of you for a while, letting the ache and regret sink in before closing his eyes and reluctantly turning away. The portal opens almost immediately, much to his dismay and expectantly swirls in front of him. He wonders, as he steps into it, if it was truly better for him to leave without saying goodbye. There was little chance that he’d see you again but some part of him didn’t want to hear you say it.

Concluding that their was no longer any reason to think about the what-ifs, he grants himself one last time to see you and smiles bitterly. “Take care of them.” he says before the portal shuts.

——————————⋆ 

Memories were as addictive as emotions. It was hard for him to accept to have loved and missed you, especially when you continued to plague his dreams. Sometimes, he even wished that he could be reborn again and again, just to see you in the days of the past. As time went on, he let the knot in his chest unravel and the weight on his shoulders lighten with the thought of you happy and enjoying life in your own world. 

It’ll be okay

He can almost hear you say it.

I wonder, he thought to himself, do you, too, dream of me?

He may never know the answer to that question but, one thing’s for sure, that was going to be alright with him.

[amydancepants-peralta]

you remind me (just how good it can get)

aka, my response to @rosalitadiazz‘s prompt for #58 - “Here, take my blanket/jacket”.  It’s just a sweet little moment that popped into my head, but I hope you enjoy! 💕

you remind me (just how good it can get)

Waving into the camera, Amy blows another set of kisses towards the video image of her son as Karen lifts his tiny (and adorably chubby, honestly she just wants to bite it!) arm out in a miniature wave.  From behind her she hears Jake call out that he loves them both, and she echoes the sentiment while Jake wraps one arm around her waist, pulling her closer until her back rests against his chest.  Together, they bid their son goodnight, and with one last wave Karen disconnects the call, the image of their little boy quickly replaced by the photo of the three of them leaving the hospital that takes pride of place on Amy’s screen.  

Thanks to some diligent saving (and being under the command of a forward-thinking captain like Holt), Amy had been able to take the last few months off on maternity leave.  In just three days she would be heading back to work, and while the FOMOW part of her was dying to button up her uniform again, there was a larger part of Amy that was just not ready to say goodbye to her little Leo for anything more than an hour or two. 

Tonight had been a trial run, with Jake’s mom Karen volunteering to stay and babysit while he and Amy head out for a long overdue date night.  It had felt kind of wonderful, to do her hair and makeup and blush when she notices her husband’s appreciative glances as he passes her in their bedroom.  Seemed like forever since she’d felt his hand brush against the small of her back as she walked into a restaurant, or had brushed her feet playfully against his underneath the table.  

The last phone call was only their third for the entire night - an admirable feat, considering both of them had nearly asked the other to turn around and head back home mere minutes after closing their apartment door (and maybe once more after their taxi pulled away from the curb).  It had helped greatly that Karen had sent them hourly updates - a series of photos that only seemed to increase in cuteness the later into the evening they got - and after paying the bill Jake had gripped Amy’s hand in his, leading her out of the restaurant and suggesting one last call home before it got too late.  

And now their son was about to go to sleep, and she wasn’t there to smother his face with kisses, and Amy felt like her heart was stretched across the boroughs of Brooklyn right now.  

Running his hands up and down her shoulders, Jake brushes a kiss along Amy’s hairline, and with a sigh she tucks her phone back into her purse.  “C’mon, there’s a gelato place up here that I’ve heard has a really good choc fudge.”

“Hold on, I just need ..” she pauses, turning towards Jake and waiting he’s facing her before wrapping her arms around his waist, holding herself tightly to him as she rests her head against his chest.  The back of her hands skim against the soft, familiar material of his jacket lining, and Amy closes her eyes as his arms envelop her body and the total Jakeness of his embrace calms her pining heart.  

He holds her as they stand together underneath the front awning that covered the restaurant’s expanse of windows, keeping his grip tight as Amy breathes in his cologne and sighs.  The bustle of the city around them fades away, the click of a group of women’s heels relegating only to gentle ticks as they pass them by, and she buries her head further in.

She feels the vibrations in Jake’s chest as he speaks, his tone only slightly betraying his concern.  “You okay, babe?”

Her cheek rustles against his shirt as she nods, the dark olive green button-down that has always been a favourite, and replies “I am now.”  Tipping her chin upwards, Amy smiles up at her husband when his eyes lock onto hers.  She hadn’t realised just how much she’d missed nights like this; whether it was gripping her husband’s arm as they walked down the street, or bathing in his smile from across the table as he talks.  “We need to do this more often.”

“We really do.”

“Let’s make a new rule.  One date night a month, minimum.  We’ll swap shifts and plan out babysitters … merge our schedules and make it happen.  Okay?”

Jake’s smile is warm, and his hands dip lower on her waist before sliding up towards her back, and it’s such a comforting feeling that Amy can feel herself begin to melt all over again.  “Are you asking me to go steady with you, Santiago?”

Amy grins, moving her head into an enthusiastic nod.  “But only for like … 70 years or so.”

“Noice.  Let’s make it an even hundred.”

“Deal.”  Her head falls back down to Jake’s chest, taking another deep breath in.  The simplicity of this moment - of being wrapped up in the arms of the man she loves while the world goes on around them - was exactly what she had been craving.  After months of next to no sleep and more nursery rhymes than she ever thought she’d know, it was nice to feel like a human being again.  

“What do you say we grab some dessert, take a walk around the city for a little while, and then head on home to our son?”  Jake mumbles, punctuating his sentence with another kiss into her hair.  

Our son.  Even with it now being a reality, the sound of those two words together still makes Amy beam.  She nods, tightening her grip before pulling back ever so slightly, resting her hands against Jake’s chest.  “So … our son.  A lot of change around here, huh?”

His laugh bounces off of Amy’s chest and settles straight into her heart, the same joyful feeling she got the first time he laughed at something she said hitting the same now just as it did then, and her own laughter bubbles out of her as he slows down, sliding his thumb along the edge of her cheek.  His eyes turn soft, drawing her in without any great effort, and it occurs to Amy that if their son ends up with his father’s eyes, she doesn’t stand a single chance.  

“I love you,”  Jake whispers, lowering his head to meet her halfway, pressing his lips against hers so sweetly that not for the first time Amy wonders how she ever survived without Jake’s kisses.  His hand - always so strong and steady - slides up the middle of her back, and Amy responds by wrapping her arms around his neck, hooking him in as their lips press harder together.  If only she could have told those two colleagues, in an evidence locker so long ago, just what kind of joy would be waiting for them both.  She’s not sure she would have believed it then, just as it seems almost surreal now.  

Their lips part, and as Jake rests his forehead against hers Amy replies, “I love you too, Jake.”

His hand slides along her arm as they pull away, gliding downwards until their palms meet and he tangles their fingers together so seamlessly it’s clear that’s where each of they belong, and Amy smiles at the thought as he leads them down the street.

Despite the long sleeves of her dress, the cool evening air hits her skin unannounced, and Amy shivers slightly.  Jake’s hand grips hers tighter in response before pulling away entirely, and just as she looks over in protest Amy notices that he’s already in the process of shedding a layer of clothing.  

“Here, take my jacket.”  He smiles, already covering her back with the leather before Amy can say another world.  The warmth of her husband’s touch washes over her, the scent of him lingering slightly as she grips the edges, running her thumbnail along the jagged teeth of the open zipper.

There’s a slight blush that begins to warm her cheeks, and Amy looks up at Jake with a grateful smile.  He’s always looking out for her, picking up on what she needs sometimes before it’s even occurred to herself, and she knows that Jake considers himself lucky to be with her, but truly; she is the lucky one.  

Jake breaks the silence with a tiny shrug, rubbing one hand along the back of his neck as he speaks.  “Would it be totally insane if I told you just how much I miss Leo right now?”

“Oh heck no.  I miss him so much it hurts.”

“He’s been so good with Mom.  He really is the best baby.”

“The best,” Amy agrees, craning her neck upwards to meet Jake halfway as he leans in for another kiss.  His jacket is draped over her shoulders, so she cannot reach out to grip Jake’s arm the way she’s done a thousand times before, but her hands sneak out from under the front and take a loose grip of his shirt, leaning in to whisper - “Why don’t we get our gelato to go and head on home … and maybe later, we can have our dessert.”

Jake’s eyebrows raise slightly as he reads between the lines, nodding quickly.  “Sounds good, excellent plan, let’s do that, cool cool cool.”

His left hand slides around her waist as they walk just that little bit faster towards the gelato shop, discussing the all-important topic of which flavours are superior to the others, and Amy cannot wait for a thousand more moments just like this.  For ice cream cones covered in sprinkles (for both Jake and their son); for walks in the park and play time on the swings … and with any luck, another chance to watch as a life begins to grow inside her.  

Life was amazing, when you surrounded yourself with the right people, and with Jake by her side Amy was beginning to discover just how good it can get.  

[ts1989fanatic]

Taylor Swift’s Cinematographer: How We Shot ‘Folklore’ Video During a Pandemic

“We needed to be safe,” Rodrigo Prieto says. “For her sake and for our sake as a crew during the shoot, but also for the future of filmmaking”

CLAIRE SHAFFER

Rodrigo Prieto is not exactly the guy you call for an easy shoot – whether that’s a four-hour mob epic for Martin Scorsese, a post-9/11 meditation on New York for Spike Lee or a triptych ensemble drama for Alejandro González Iñárritu. More recently, the renowned cinematographer was faced with a challenge of a different kind: taking on his second top-secret music video for Taylor Swift during the height of the COVID-19 pandemic.

Swift unveiled her self-directed “Cardigan” video last Friday alongside Folklore, her indie-rock quarantine opus cobbled together over the past three months. The 16-track record has dominated both physical sales and digital streams, despite largely avoiding the traditional, prolonged album rollout that Swift has codified during her time on the pop charts. As far as promotional singles go, “Cardigan” barely counts, as it premiered on YouTube simultaneously with the album’s release on streaming services; you could choose, as many did, to listen to all of Folklore before ever pressing play on the video. But rather than feeling tacked on to the project, “Cardigan” acts like Folklore’s plain-spoken thesis statement, depicting Swift on a solo journey through magical forests, stormy seas and candlelit cottages that she conjures up with her own musical capabilities. Like the album, it’s homespun and dreamlike and, in the right light, a little unsettling.

According to Prieto, that all came from Swift on their first phone call. “She had the whole storyline – the whole notion of going into the piano and coming out into the forest, the water, going back into the piano,” he tells Rolling Stone. Their last collaboration, “The Man,” found Swift adopting a male alter ego to satirize gender inequality. From the beginning, though, Prieto says “Cardigan” was always going to be more ambiguous, and more personal: “When she called me and told me that this was more of a fantasy, I found that really appealing.”

This was in early July, when Prieto had simultaneously begun serving on a committee for the American Society of Cinematographers (ASC) to conceive solutions for safely resuming film production during the ongoing pandemic, all while COVID cases continued to spike upwards in California. Prieto had just finished filming a PSA for a healthcare company when Swift asked him to work on “Cardigan,” and he was well aware of the many, many layers of risks involved in the project.

“We needed to be safe, for her sake and for our sake as a crew during the shoot, but also for the future of filmmaking,” he says. “Because we want to keep working and doing what we do, and if, God forbid, someone got sick on one of the first jobs that was filmed, it would probably close down [the industry].”

The extensive safety protocols for the shoot ranged from standard – everybody had to get tested, and every member of the crew wore a mask – to outlandish: Because Swift would need to spend a large part of the shoot not wearing a face covering, the crew used a colored wristband system, determining which members of the team were permitted to stand closest to her. (Prieto, assistant director Joe Osborne, and set designer Ethan Tobman all wore one color, lighting designers and gaffers wore another, and so on.)

Prieto actually wore two face coverings – a mask and an acrylic shield – for most of the day-and-a-half-long shoot. And just to ensure that crew members crossed within a six-foot range of Swift as little as possible, the entire “Cardigan” video was shot by mounting the camera to a robotic arm, which was then controlled by a remote operator. The “techno arm,” as Prieto calls it, is typically only used in the industry for crane shots and other establishing visuals.

“We were going to use the crane for the ocean scene,” Prieto explains, referencing the shot where the image zooms out on the wide expanse of the water before honing back in on Swift. “So then I said, let’s have it both days.”

Hooking the camera up to a giant robot was the safest way to get close-ups on Swift’s face, Prieto explains. And as unwieldy as that sounds, you’d never know from watching the video that a human being wasn’t behind the lens at all times (In fact, given its success, Prieto is looking into smaller robotic arms that can be used on a dolly for upcoming projects.)

There was, of course, the added tangle of secrecy – the filmmaking had to be done indoors to avoid crowds, and Swift wore an earpiece throughout the shoot to lip-sync to the song without any of the crew hearing it. The crew built three sets on two stages across one large studio, and in order to create the illusion of natural light for the outdoor scenes, Prieto and his crew draped giant stretches of white bouncing fabric on the walls and ceiling. The process took longer than usual due to COVID, with the lighting crew working in small groups and frequently taking breaks so they could remove masks and catch their breath.

“Filmmaking is a gregarious endeavor by nature,” Prieto says. “People are close to each other, so it’s really hard to remember to keep to yourselves.” Given the distancing on set, it was sometimes tricky for crew members to communicate over reference points and documents – “we had to kind of point at each other” – but Prieto attributes Swift’s clear vision for the project as a guiding light. Ahead of the shoot, she sent him and Tobman numerous visual references for each scene – a mix of photographs for the dark ocean water and drawings for the fantastical forest sequence. One illustration, of a sword lodged into a rock formation overlooking a creek, was particularly inspiring: “That became our focal interest – we didn’t imitate it, but the feeling of it was what we went with.”

On top of that, Swift came up with a detailed shot list for the video ahead of time, with each visual accompanied by a time sequence within the song. “The ocean water, the fingers on the piano, whatever it may be, she knew what she wanted for each section,” Prieto says. Unlike with “The Man,” Swift couldn’t be as hands-on with her direction on set – she viewed each take through a video monitor after it was shot – but Prieto was impressed by her ability to “talk with the camera” and utilize cinematic language without formal training, like with the unorthodox, zoom-out-and-in shot over the ocean. “I was blown away, because it’s all metaphorical,” he says. “This video is not just pretty images of things; she’s telling a personal story through her lyrics, her music, and now through the video.”

ts1989fanatic her mind and artistic talent continues to amaze me constantly

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Colton/Kauri Fanfic Drabble 2: Love Confession

I promised to reward anyone who drew a specific, amazing fanart idea I was sent in an ask with a fake fanfiction drabble that featured the Colton (belongs to @shameless-whumper)/Kauri pairing.

This is my second “Cori” fanfic, this one is for @my-whumpy-little-heart‘s prompt Love Confession. These are written as though they are excerpts of AO3 fanfics people wrote after seeing Kauri on The Host’s YouTube Video in Who’s the Better Box Boy.  

And they are so. much. fun. to. write.

P.S. @shameless-whumper wrote this fucking excellent piece over on AO3 of Cori fanfic that broke my heart and I want it to break yours. Required reading, 100% required. You will be answering questions about this fic on your final exam.

Tagging: @maybeawhumpblog, @pepperonyscience, @haro-whumps, @18-toe-beans, @burtlederp, @finder-of-rings, @giggly-evil-puppy, @whimpers-and-whumpers, @whump-it, @lumpofwhump, @pumpkinthefangirl

CW: Aftermath of seriously dubious dubcon, references to dubcon/noncon, aftermath of biting, aftercare in general, reference to violence/restraints

When the Camera’s Off by PetRescuer445 Youtubers: The Host

Author Chose Not to Use Archive Warnings, Colton/Kauri, Kauri/Colton, Colton, Kauri, The Host, Angst, Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, Cannot Emphasize Enough How Dubious the Consent Is, Not Safe Not Sane But Kind of Consensual?, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Kind Of Consensual Bondage, Started Out Angsty Smut Turned Into a Love Story, Kauri is a sweetheart, Colton is a treasure, the Host would probably love this, story changed a lot from original plan, honestly this was just an excuse to write crazy smut for my favorite Youtuber, then it turned into a love story between two pets, alternate universe, human pets, this fire took twenty chapters to catch but damn it still burns,

Summary: Alternate Universe: What if Colton and Kauri both got sent to the Host as a gift from Whumpees-R-Us? A peek into the life of Colton, the Host’s Domestic pet, and Kauri as their Romantic pet! 

Because let’s face, nobody with those big blue eyes would ever be made anything but a Romantic pet, am I right?!

Two pets bond in unexpected ways when one of them takes care of the Host’s household while the other ~takes care of the Host~. Super slow burn, but trust me, we’re going smutty places! I promise and have I ever let you down? :) Remember comments and kudos are always appreciated! 

Chapter 33/40

The Bath

“Why me?” Colton pitches his voice low, so the sound of the water rushing from the faucet into the bathtub will ensure that Kauri can’t hear him from where he sits on the bathmat next to the tub, shivering and hunched over, staring down at the ground with a horribly familiar, empty expression.

“Why not you?” The Host answers, flashing their brilliant too-wide smile. “I’ve got shit to do, babe. Have to edit the new video and then I’m meeting with some people about product placement.”

“It’s not my purpose to, to clean up Romantics,” Colton argues, but there’s no real fight in his voice. For one, it won’t work - the Host doesn’t care whether or not Colton wants to be responsible for this. For two, the Host only ever enjoys Colton fighting so they can push and push and push until he stops. “You, you d-did this-”

“Colton. Babe.” The Host reaches up to pat the side of his face with their palm, and Colton flinches away when they scratch behind his ear like he’s a dog. “Listen. You’re the Domestic, right?”

There’s a pause, when Colton realizes he’s expected to answer. “Y-Yes, I am.”

The hand moves around behind his hair, and the Host’s smile changes a little as they grip hard and yank his head back until Colton’s knees have to bend to stay standing, hissing through his teeth. “Domestics take care of the house, right? Right, Babe?” 

“Yes,” Colton manages, voice thin and strained. “We do.”

“Good. You cook, you clean, you come on camera for my viewers and give ‘em something as pretty as me to look at… and you take care of the household. And Kauri’s part of my household. Besides.” The Host abruptly lets go and shoots Colton a cheeky, wicked little smile. “You like seeing him naked exactly as much as I do. Don’t think I haven’t caught you watching me edit the private videos.”

Colton’s face burns. “I don’t think I’ve ever done that,” He says, trying for evasive, but the Host only laughs loud enough to make even Kauri flinch a little where he sits. 

“Sure you haven’t. It’ll be our little secret.” The Host gives him a pinch to his cheek, tweaking the skin until it hurts, and then they walk away and leave Colton standing there, staring after them with murder in his eyes and his heart that never, ever reaches his hands.

Then he takes a deep breath, sighs, and turns to look into the bathroom at Kauri.

The Host’s Romantic pet is still sitting where he’d been left, on the bathmat next to the rapidly-filling giant bathtub. The Host was always bragging about how much it cost to get a bathtub this size (“big enough for five, I tried it out one weekend with friends and we really topped out at five”), and Kauri seems dwarfed next to it. Smaller, and lost inside his head, the way he gets sometimes after the Host was in a really good mood.

His stomach twisting, Colton moves towards him, crouching down in front of the other pet, tilting his head. “Kauri,” He says, softly. “The bathtub’s almost ready.”

Kauri blinks, and after a second the deep blue eyes focus on his dark brown. Then he smiles, and some of the emptiness falls off his face, shifting away like it’d never been there. “Oh, Colton,” He says, and his voice is low, a little deeper than you’d think for how delicate he looks. “Hey. I didn’t know you were there.”

“Hey. The Host asked me to sit with you, while you get cleaned up. Do you want that?” 

He leaves the offer open, he always does - the Host is constantly having him sit with Kauri after stuff like this, because they never want to stick around to take care of him after they leave him like this. But he always leaves Kauri the option to say no.

“Yes, please,” Kauri whispers in the soft sweet voice that Colton is always trying to hear in any context but this. He holds up his hands, and Colton carefully avoids the bruises around his wrists as he grabs him by his upper forearms, close to his elbows, to pull him to his feet. 

Kauri’s hair is a wild, riotous mess, but Colton doesn’t mind the way it brushes his face when Kauri stands up too fast and stumbles forward against him. The red stripes on his back are just welts, really - the Host’s heart hadn’t been in it this time. There are other things he doesn’t want to think about - the choke-chain around Kauri’s neck replacing his usual collar, the red underneath that promises to bruise in the morning, a bite mark so deep on one shoulder that you could probably identify the Host through the dental records.

“I’m going to help you step into the tub,” Colton says softly, and Kauri’s hands grip tightly onto his arms, looking up at him, swallowing hard. 

“Can… can you get in, in with me?” Kauri asks, and his voice trembles just a little. “I just need… I could use someone with me. For a little bit, I’m just still kind of… coming down.”

The absolute last thing in the world Colton wants to hear about is how the Host is so good that Kauri has to recover from time with them - but sometimes ‘coming down’ doesn’t mean in a good way, and it looks like today is one of the shaky ones.

“Uh… sure. Yeah.” Colton looks away to hide the flush, moving Kauri gently over to the edge of the tub, trying to keep his eyes on anything but the marks left on the pale skin. They’re too red - or too purple already, some of them - and he can’t stop the surge of anger, the sense of wanting to fix this and make sure it never happens again.

It doesn’t work that way.

It never does, for the Box Boys.

So instead, he lets Kauri hold him for balance as he lifts one leg and then the other to step into the hot water, nearly scalding just the way Kauri likes it after times like this. Kauri doesn’t let go, fingers gripped so tightly they press into Colton’s skin, until he’s sitting down in the tub, in the middle of the giant space that seems to make him seem so small. 

“Now… now you,” Kauri says, and tilts his head as he looks sideways up at Colton, and the Host makes fun of him for the way he looks at Colton like that, but Colton… secretly, and he’d never admit it… he loves it.

His hands go to pull the yellow branded sweatshirt off, just brushing at the hem when Kauri flinches back, looking down at the water. Colton drops his hands immediately. “Hey… I don’t have to, Kauri. You know that. I’ll just sit next to the tub-”

“No, I… I want you in the tub. But just… can you keep your clothes, um, on? I know… I know it’s ridiculous…”

Colton blinks, and then he slowly nods. He gets into the tub, feeling the water soak immediately into his gray sweatpants, and slowly lowers himself behind Kauri, until he’s soaked totally through, the nearly-burning water making his clothing half-float around him in the water. 

Kauri doesn’t hesitate - as soon as Colton has settled he leans back against him, and Colton slides arms around his waist, clasping hands together under the water, just above Kauri’s navel. It’s quiet, now - they can’t hear the Host and honestly they might have left.

He hopes they left.

Kauri’s hair tickles at his nose and his neck as he leans his head back against Colton’s shoulder, humming to himself, some song that both of them almost remember but neither really does. He’s warm, and his skin feels soft even where it’s been bitten. 

Colton slowly cranes his neck, leans down, and kisses at the ring of teeth around Kauri’s shoulder. When Kauri doesn’t pull away, he does it again, and again, and again, once for every single toothmark he can count. 

Eventually, Kauri starts to cry.

Neither of them speak, while he does, or acknowledge it - Kauri cries a lot, after, and all Colton can do is be there to hold him through it. The low, half-buried sobs eventually get louder, and Colton’s arms get tighter. He never lets go. He never pulls away from Kauri, he never gives him anything but the comfort he really needs, comfort the Host is totally unable to give.

When the louder sobs have worn themselves out and Kauri’s shoulders stop shaking, when he goes boneless and relaxed again in the water, Colton leans forward. There are tear tracks glimmering on Kauri’s cheeks, but his eyes are open, and warm, and they’re not empty.

“Better?” Colton whispers.

“Better,” Kauri replies, and snuggles back against him. They sit in silence for a long time, and Colton’s heart beats hard in his chest. 

“Hey, Kauri, um, how long since we came here?”

There’s a pause, a moment for thought. “Year or so.”

“A year.” They were given together, but they weren’t a bonded pair. They’d never even seen each other before their boxes were opened by the Host, live on camera. Colton was opened first, and all he could think as he watched the Host take Kauri’s blindfold off was Oh, I really like his eyes. “That’s funny, it doesn’t feel like it’s been that long, does it?”

“Not really.” Kauri turns his head, twisting around a little so he could look into Colton’s eyes again. His own are red-rimmed from crying but a clear and perfect blue. The water around them is still hot enough to stay comfortable, although where it had soaked in all the way up to Colton’s shoulders felt chilly in the cool air-conditioned room. “But… I like that you’re here with me, Colton.”

“Yeah?”

Kauri smiles at him, and the empty look from before is gone. Kauri bounces back fast from the Host’s attentions - he’s trained to but also there’s something innate in him that just seems to get over it, move past it, move on. Colton’s the one left simmering in resentment, while Kauri smiles when the Host comes back from wherever they go some days, as if nothing ever happened, gives a bright, surprised laugh when the Host shoves him up on the kitchen counter while Colton tries desperately to cook dinner, lets out an excited gasp when the Host pushes him into walls.

Once, the Host pushed him over the couch on his stomach and his head was right next to Colton’s where he sat working on some sound editing. The Host told him to stay sitting right where he was.

That had been the longest fucking twenty minutes of Colton’s life.

Not that he could remember his life.

The sounds Kauri makes are always so practiced, so robotic. Colton can never keep the flicker of disgust from his face. Kauri’s just a better liar.

But there’s one thing Colton is pretty sure Kauri isn’t lying about. 

“Hey, can… can I ask you something?” Colton’s voice is still low, just in case. In the Host’s house you could never be sure where a camera might be, or a hidden microphone. They were always careful - had developed something like a code, a long time ago, without either one needing to elaborate on it or explain it. 

But he was reasonably sure that there weren’t any microphones in the bathroom.

Yet.

Although there probably would be at least a camera if the Host ever figured out that they sat together like this.

“Ask away,” Kauri says, closing his eyes and resting his head back against Colton’s shoulder, turning so his forehead is resting against Colton’s neck. 

“What would you say…” Colton trains his eyes on the big window on the other side of the bathroom, the wispy white curtains, the frosted glass. “What would you say if I told you that I, um-”

Kauri grins - Colton can’t quite see it, but it’s like he can feel it, the smile as much under his skin as on Kauri’s face. “I think I know what you’re asking.”

“… what would you say, then?”

“I’d say I love you, too.”

[ckret2]

Godzilla Recycles

It’s been more than a month since the reawakening of the titans. In that time, they’ve been a constant fixture in the world’s news headlines. But... generally not for the expected reasons. More for things like starring in YouTube language lessons, stealing cars, and recycling their plastic.

This is part of an ongoing series of Rodorah one-shots. It’s not ABOUT Rodorah but mentions of the ship are made. If you don’t wanna read the others... tbh this sorta sums up a lot of the stuff that’s been going on in them, just from the perspective of the humans who have no idea what’s going on. All you really need to know going in is that Ghidorah (grudgingly) yielded the fight before he otherwise would have killed Mothra. Half of the fic is a sum up of the bizarre crap the titans have been up to; the other half, is, indeed, the promised Godzilla recycling. Fic hasn’t been proofed yet because this sonuva took me almost two months to write and I want to get it out already. EDIT: now proofed!! Links to the other fics are in the source at the bottom of this post.

###

HEART OF MONARCH FOUND ALIVE

Throughout the titans' mass awakening, every news station, site, and paper in the world was filled with towering headlines screaming about the monsters crawling and careening across Earth's vast landscapes. Each and every individual titan had hundreds of live streams in both video and text, constantly updating the terrified world on the latest actions of the monsters storming through their cities.

The greatest number of cameras stalked Ghidorah and Godzilla's every dread-inspiring move, not just because anything that happened to the United States east coast always seemed to get disproportionate coverage, but also because someone had leaked intel revealing that Ghidorah had awakened the rest of the titans and appeared to be commanding them. Anyone dealing directly with a titan attack tracked their own beast's news, of course; but for the parts of the world situated between the attacks, watching clouds roiling far too fast overhead and listening to their homes rattle from earthquakes hundreds of miles away—their eyes darted between news about whatever nearest creature might menace them and news coming out of Boston about the titans’ supposed ringleader, waiting to see what was going to happen next.

In the aftermath of the fighting, for days there wasn’t a major paper or station that had a story that didn’t somehow feature titans, whether directly or tangentially. Every eye in the world was gazing fearfully into the distance, waiting fearfully for some several-hundred-foot-tall beast to lumber over the horizon.

And so it was somehow both amazing and completely understandable that the news totally ignored that Serizawa Ishiro had been found alive in Boston.

He was located the second morning after the fight. He was unconscious on the northern shore of Spectacle Island in Boston Harbor, within easy sight of the spot where the final titan battle had been fought. He was evacuated to the nearest operational hospital to receive treatment for exposure, dehydration, and what a week earlier might have been misdiagnosed as one bitch of a sunburn but which by then the doctors could unfortunately easily identify as radiation burns. It was another day before he was identified, and from there only a few hours before the room was full of balloons and flowers sent by dozens of Monarch employees. He hadn't woken up yet, but he was stable and expected to recover, and when he did wake up he was going to know he was appreciated.

Monarch had no idea how he'd survived. Godzilla must have saved him, everyone agreed; the leading theory was that Godzilla had stuck Serizawa in his mouth moments before the bomb exploded, driven some unknown godzillish instinct, to release him somewhere safe when he arrived in Boston just before attacking Ghidorah—and that was only the leading theory because nobody could come up with any others. (Rick Stanton's proposal that the explosion had opened up a vacuum-powered tunnel between Godzilla's lair and Boston was rejected out of hand.) Serizawa couldn't explain as long as he was unconscious, and Godzilla himself certainly wasn't going to tell them anything. But whatever had happened, they were grateful it had.

Serizawa's survival didn't make headlines; who was Serizawa to the world but another one of the many talking heads that sometimes spoke for Monarch, and not even the most frequently seen one at that? Only a few articles were devoted to his miraculous discovery, and most of them were in more specialized publications geared toward biologists, environmentalists, or titanologists. In most places, he was a two-sentence comment near the end of a longer article about Monarch's response to the tragedies or Boston's clean up efforts.

But the world was still reeling from the damage, struggling to sift through the rubble for any little signs to reassure them that this could have been a lot worse and that from now on, things could start to get better.

For Monarch, finding Serizawa alive was their sign.

GHIDORAH ROOSTS OFF EAST COAST OF MEXICO, AVOIDS FURTHER DESTRUCTION

For many others, their sign was Isla de Mara.

After the battle in Boston, when Rodan and Ghidorah began their slow flight south, Monarch was sure that they were going to head to Isla de Mara. Monarch operatives were surrounding the island when they arrived. The titans’ trajectory had been calculated, their arrival anticipated, and—although Monarch had no idea what they could actually do when the titans arrived—Monarch was sure to be there, all the same. If for no other reason than to document.

The town was still all but empty—under quarantine by the Mexican government. Rescuers were working their way through town, looking for bodies or survivors that hadn't joined the initial evacuation, in toppled buildings or buried by pyroclastic flow; but nearly everyone who could be removed from the island had been.

All the same, there was a perceptible tension over the quiet radio lines as the two titans descended into view through the clouds of volcanic ash. Just their arrival stirred tumult, kicking up clouds of previously-settled ash and rubble. Monarch and the few rescuers in the town braced themselves for hurricane-force winds to blow through what was left of the town, knocking over already-damaged buildings.

They didn't.

Although the ash on the volcano churned in the air around the two titans, not so much as a breeze stirred in the town below.

Then the titans were settled, Rodan sinking into his crater as comfortably as a vacationer into a jacuzzi, Ghidorah clinging to the side of the volcano like a bat.

And when the news got out, the world let out a tense sigh of relief. That was the sign everyone had been waiting for: the sign that, at least for now, this was really over.

PRELIMINARY FLUID DYNAMIC ANALYSIS OF AIR CURRENTS IN JOINT LANDING BETWEEN TITANUS RODAN AND MONSTER ZERO

It took days of analyzing Monarch's footage of Rodan and Ghidorah landing before a pack of fascinated aerodynamicists with expertise in computational fluid dynamics could run a proper simulation demonstrating how their wings affected the air. What the simulation revealed was that Rodan's landing should have blown devastating wind into the town below. However, Ghidorah's landing, facing directly across from Rodan and wings tilted at just the right angle, had pushed the air currents back the other way—effectively turning the force of Rodan's flaps out to sea.

And furthermore, they said it wasn't accidental. They had abundant footage now from the first time Ghidorah had landed on Isla de Mara, from his various takeoffs and landings in Boston, and from the few times he'd left and returned to Isla de Mara without being accompanied by Rodan. That wasn't how Ghidorah usually landed.

It was, however, what he had done when Rodan landed; and it was what he did in subsequent days every time Rodan returned to his volcano, until Rodan began habitually landing on the north side of the volcano instead.

The paper was released as a messy rough draft directly online, bypassing journalistic publication entirely to make it as easy as possible for everyone who might be concerned to get to the findings; in the aftermath of the titan attacks, the authors had the patience neither for peer review nor for the slow publication process and paywalls blocking off most of their usual journals. To everyone who read the preliminary paper—mainly titanologists and other aerodynamicists—the thought of a flying creature so consciously and precisely manipulating air currents like that was absolutely mind-boggling.

Even more mind-boggling was the thought that Ghidorah had bothered to do it.

Why?

TITANS EXPLORE LANDSCAPE: MOST HUMAN INTERACTIONS PEACEFUL

Over and over, they were discovering just how alarmingly clever the titans were. More than once, Kraken had camouflaged itself as a capsized ship, tentacles pressed together in the shape of a hull, just to splash any boats that came close to investigate and disappear beneath the sea, like it was playing a game with humans. Behemoth, on his way back down from Boston to Rio de Janeiro, had stopped in Guatemala to observe a construction site, waited there until the panicked workers decided he wasn't going to attack and returned to work, and then, after watching them a bit, had started doing the crane's job by picking up steel beams and putting them in place.

As articles about the damage, the deaths, and the global response to the tragedies began to receive smaller and less dire headlines, the articles about the titans' frightening and fascinating intelligence began popping up—usually not making front page news, but popping up regularly on page 2. Cell phone videos racked up millions of views.

Scylla had etched deep grooves in strange shapes in Death Valley before heading north; a few days later, the MUTO passed through, stopped and studied the grooves, before turning north as well. Which meant they were, what, a map? Instructions? It at least indicated that titans were capable of communicating with abstract symbols—that was ninety percent of the way to writing. It further suggested that the titans had language, mutually intelligible language.

Many of Monarch's employees already suspected as much; the titans vocalized at each other so much, it was completely plausible that they'd developed the capacity for speech.

They didn't expect the theory to be confirmed so blatantly.

"LANGUAGE OF THE BIG BIRDS"? MONARCH RELEASES TITAN LANGUAGE LESSONS STARRING RODAN, GHIDORAH

Outpost 56-B, which had been cobbled together within hours of Ghidorah's landing on Isla de Mara, consisted of five permanent employees, three trailers, two porta-potties, eleven (and decreasing) drones, forty cameras, one satellite, and one big red button to radio the Armada de México in case of dragon-shaped emergency. Along with the full-time employees, they had fifteen part-timers they'd hired from among the people slowly returning to town: fourteen to help monitor the titans through the cameras 24/7, and one to bike in from town with lunch each day. The outpost was stationed just north of the still-standing portions of the town of Isla de Mara, near the very edge of the volcanic rock that had been spilled when Rodan emerged. (They used to have four trailers, but the one that had been standing on volcanic rock had been kicked into town by Ghidorah. They took that to mean they weren't allowed to step on the rock.)

Outpost 56-B was surpassed for Monarch's most pathetic outpost only by Outpost 75-B, which consisted of two motorboats, a pair of walkie-talkies, a generous Airbnb stipend, and a rechargeable flashlight with a cord that, they'd discovered too late, wasn't compatible with Sudanese power outlets.

And yet, for what a ramshackle little operation Outpost 56-B was, it had been the one to provide proof of titan language. And god, what proof! They had recorded evidence of a giant pteranodon giving language lessons to a three-headed alien dragon. Slowly, and carefully; gesturing to each object or performing each action before giving the word; saying each word clearly, several times; using them in simple sentences based on previous vocabulary, each word kept separate and distinct. 

Consequently, Monarch was learning Rodan's language alongside Ghidorah. So far, they had eighteen nouns, seven verbs, five adjectives, a catch-all question word that seemed to mean "who," "what," "when," and "where" all together, the words for "yes" and "no," and one interjection that seemed to mean "look at me" or "pay attention." They knew that Rodan had words for compass directions—two of them, anyway—and that his language conflated the concept of "west" with "up" and of "east" with "down" into only two words. They had Rodan's name for Ghidorah—and Rodan's name for himself, a three-part carrying "Rrrr-DAAA-nnn" cry that they immediately identified as the probable source of the remarkably consistent name that cultures around the world assigned members of Titanus Rodan. Had this one Rodan been spotted in so many locations? Or had he given Ghidorah his species name rather than his personal name? Did members of Rodan's species have personal names?

Very soon, they might be able to ask him.

Outpost 56-B started a YouTube channel, titled it "lenguaje de los pájaros titánicos (para principiantes)" and started uploading videos with both Spanish and English subtitles for anyone who couldn't work out the translations just by watching Rodan. (When Monarch HQ emailed to complain that 56-B had to ask before declassifying that kind of material, they kept posting videos, blurred out the extremely easily identifiable titans' faces, and emailed back to request a third porta-potty.) There were human beings, alive today, all over the planet, learning alongside a literal alien how to understand a titan's language.

Over the next couple of weeks, while every titan's face battled for screen time on every major news station, Godzilla's and Ghidorah's gradually appeared less and less on North American stations as the recently-averted apocalypse became old news and full-blown sapient speaking life found off the coast of the Mexico-U.S. border became the new hot story. Between his face flashing on every major news station over headlines about titan language as talking heads speculated about the possibility of complex titan civilizations, and a wave of Tamaulipeco defenders eager to claim Rodan as a state symbol who were ready to point out that most of the damage on and around Isla de Mara had actually been caused by the U.S. military, Rodan was now the most popular titan on Earth.

And then he made a trip to Infant Island.

INDONESIAN INFANT ISLANDERS VINDICATED: "GODDESS" MOTHRA COMES HOME

Many articles mentioned the fact that after the battle, Mothra had retreated to a small island in the Indonesian archipelago. Some of them even mentioned the name Infant Island.

Very few outside of local and specialist publications discussed that the Infant Islanders were reveling in the fact that their previously derided "local folkloric" claim to having been the home of a goddess had been very recently validated when Godzilla ferried Mothra straight to their island, where she settled down into a well-worn groove in the middle of town square as though she'd never left it. One reason this news was under-reported probably had to do with the fact that they refused to let reporters on the island, fearful that it would become trampled as a new tourist destination; and the threatening psychic weight of Mothra's mind pressing down on any presumptuous reporters approaching in boats hoping to be the exception deterred those who tried to defy the ban. Instead, they arranged for interviews off island or online, and provided any requested pictures of Mothra—when she agreed, of course.

The only outsiders who had been allowed on the island had been the Chen twins, accepted as valid representatives for Mothra. Although their island still had descendants from the line of twin sisters that Mothra had gifted them, they had no living twins from that line. Mothra had already promised them that their next generation of children would have twin daughters. In the meantime, visiting twins from another of Mothra's nests were... well... acceptable, the Islanders supposed. They hastily established rules about how much the Chen twins could report to outsiders about the island and its people and culture, which they faithfully followed. (Even as much as it killed legend collector Ilene to not immediately ask a million questions about what stories they'd passed down about Mothra.)

They were, however, allowed to transcribe any of Mothra's telepathic conversations with visiting titans into Mandarin as long as she herself permitted it—and she did continue to permit it—and so it was when Rodan arrived to have a long, apparently one-sided conversation with Mothra.

TITANIC ROSETTA STONE? MONARCH TRANSLATES RODAN, MOTHRA CONVERSATION

It wasn't quite as cut-and-dry as Rodan's accidental language lessons; especially since there were parts of the conversation where Mothra had sought out information straight from Rodan's mind that the Chen twins couldn't make any sense of—except that Rodan’s thoughts had something to do with a very interesting hug-like display on Isla de Mara from the day before, and that they were rotten with fear.

(The “hug” from Ghidorah to Rodan—if that was what it was—was already infamous in Monarch. The 56-B team had eagerly circulated it throughout Monarch yesterday in the form of a several-second video that was set to the cheesiest pop song they could find and covered in heart emojis. Shortly before they’d uploaded the same video—without authorization—to their official Twitter and TikTok accounts. Stories about Rodan were beginning to pop up not just under news sites' World sections, but also under Entertainment. It was a jarring sight, considering how many of those stories also featured an alien dragon that had recently tried to destroy the world.)

But despite not having a word-for-word translation, Rodan's conversation with Mothra and its Mandarin translation did offer the possibility of a rosetta stone with which they could decipher far more about his language. Comparing his language lessons with Ghidorah to his conversation with Mothra was like comparing day one of a college Spanish 1 class to Don Quixote. It was a huge leap forward toward the day—which now seemed not like a possibility but an inevitability—when they would be able to pipe sentences in Rodan's language  through a speaker and have a real conversation with him.

Rodan's trip to Infant Island should have been the most noteworthy titan news of the day.

But noteworthy news was nearly impossible to predict.

GHIDORAH RETURNS TO BOSTON, LIVE UPDATES: ONE INJURED. EXPLORES RUBBLE, INTERACTS WITH HUMANS.

Two hours before Rodan's conversation with Mothra,  the eyes of half the planet had been glued to a constant live news stream coming out of the United States, as one local station after another trained its cameras toward the skies, following Ghidorah as he headed north. The world dreaded that the moment Rodan left him unsupervised, he'd decided to pick up exactly where he'd left off. It seemed that he’d even returned to Boston specifically to continue his apocalypse.

Instead, he stole a speaker and a car, made fun of the U.S. Army, complied with some demolitionists' request to help them take down a building, and went home.

After that, the far more academic matter of a new jump forward in titan linguistics was relegated to a small article on Monarch's official titan tracking website.

MONARCH ISSUES RED ALERT: GHIDORAH AND RODAN MOVING SOUTH OVER ATLANTIC

Another example of the unpredictability of newsworthy items:

Rodan—along with Ghidorah—was back in the news later that evening for what the 56-B crew was insistently calling a "lovers' spat," a brief skirmish that ended with Ghidorah literally storming off to Antarctica and Rodan charging into the hurricane after him.

For several hours, the world was braced, yet again, for the potential end of the world.

But before the next morning, it was clear that the skirmish was going to end with no further loss of human life—even the four Monarch employees stationed in what was left of Outpost 32 had evacuated long before Ghidorah had arrived to sweep the ruins into the very hole he'd emerged from. Coasts in the southern hemisphere on both sides of the Atlantic were hit with vicious waves as Ghidorah's hurricane passed by, but nothing that threatened seaside homes, and the worst they got in the way of weather was strong drizzles and stiff breezes. Satellite monitoring, a few absurdly far-off jets, and the evacuated Antarctic Monarch employees squinting through the blizzard caught fuzzy lightning-lit glimpses of another terrible titanic battle; but by the time anyone was close enough to record the fighting properly, it had ended with the two titans sitting on the coast of Antarctica together, having another language lesson.

(Outpost 56-B demanded that HQ send them the footage so that they could update their YouTube channel. HQ refused to do so until they'd reviewed the footage themselves. A traitor within the ranks sent 56-B the footage anyway, and the world was graced with the knowledge of Rodan's word for "snow.")

But despite the fact that the turbulence from Isla de Mara ultimately ended up having all of the newsworthy appeal of celebrity relationship drama, it still received far more coverage than the real breaking news happening halfway around the world:

GODZILLA RECYCLES

In the town of Kuta, on the island of Bali, in Indonesia, was the Ngurah Rai International Airport.

Godzilla had been harassing it for the last two weeks.

The airport crossed nearly the entire length of a peninsula, its runway jutting out into the sea to the west and to the east only separated from water by a strip of trees hardly a fifth of a mile wide. Kuta Beach stretched out along the coast both north and south of the runway. Located an equal distance away from the outposts that had contained titans "Typhon" and "Bunyip," Kuta was untouched by the recent attacks; but the beaches were still oddly barren, as the tourism that would usually be ramping up this time of year was reduced due to the vast swathes of the human population that had to instead turn their resources to recovering from the recent attacks. Still, there were some tourists out on Kuta Beach—enough that, when Godzilla's dorsal plates rose out of the ocean to the west, the wave of people running east to avoid him could be veritably classified as a stampede.

As Godzilla approached the Ngurah Rai International Airport, every airplane that hadn't taken off was grounded and those coming in were frantically redirected to nearby islands. He lumbered straight up to the side of the runway, feet still in the water of the beach as he leaned over the runway, dropped a massive pile of nets, and promptly turned around and returned to the ocean.

The airport shut down all operations and called Monarch.

As Serizawa, the world's only true Godzilla expert, was still in a coma, Monarch had to guess at what he'd say about Godzilla's strange behavior. They decided that Serizawa would probably say he was trying to restore Earth's natural order, which probably included dealing with its pollution; so Godzilla was returning human detritus to whom it belonged—the humans—so that they could properly clean up their own mess.

So the airport waited a day, removed the nets with a hazmat crew, and the next day was cautiously back in business.

And a day later, Godzilla was back with another delivery of nets. When he reached the spot where he'd dropped his first pile, he paused, looked around, and then climbed onto the runway and stormed along the length of it, apparently looking for his original stash. He pushed aside airplanes and bent over to peer into hangars and terminals, where terrified travelers who thought they'd be safer inside stared back at him. Eventually he gave up and, with a roar of frustration, sank back underwater.

This time, Monarch decided they were pretty terrible at roleplaying as Serizawa and advised the airport to leave the nets be.

They pushed the nets to the very corner of the airport grounds, near where Godzilla had left them and still out in the open but off of the runway itself. They stank. Apology signs were posted on the nearby beach and the tourists moved further south.

The third time Godzilla visited, he graciously accepted their relocation, added his new nets, and left in peace.

After several more such trips, he showed up in the middle of the night with a new piece of cargo: Mothra, riding on his back, her wings—one whole, one tattered since the battle in Boston—raised high.

A monarch ship, with the Chen twins on board, followed close behind, ready and eager to find out from Mothra just what in the hell Godzilla was doing with the nets.

Whatever the titans talked about on their way to Bali, Monarch had been too far away to hear. But now that they were on land and speaking to each other, in roars and in telepathy, the Chen twins began translating and transcribing their conversation:

"It's ugly," Godzilla said, "But I think it will work."

Mothra had climbed off of his back and onto the airport grounds, and was prodding at the pile of nets with one leg. I'm not so sure.

"We can try it! It'll be fine."

Why are we so close to humans? Mothra turned toward the airport, which was one again closed. At least at this time of night there were far fewer travelers. They're nervous.

"This is the only place with flat enough ground." He jerked his head toward the runway. "Lay down with your wing on the flat strip. I'll trace it."

Someone had produced some spotlights—Monarch didn't know who, they weren't working with them—and pointed it at the titans. Mothra had gestured for them to point the light down at the runway instead. Although whoever was behind the lights apparently didn't have enough sense to not shine a giant flashlight in a couple of city-destroying monsters' faces, they did at least have enough sense to listen when the less destructive one made a request, and pointed the light down. It shined off of Mothra's good wing as she maneuvered herself onto her back and lay it flat on the runway.

Godzilla knelt next to her and very carefully traced around the wing with a claw, scraping a gouge into the concrete. "I've melted the humans' floating weeds before," he said, and Mothra silently clarified to the Chen twins that he was referring to the nets. He did have a word for nets, but the word didn't convey his disdain for them the way "floating weeds" did. "If you get enough of it together, when it cools, it makes a solid layer. We just have to make a barrier around the outline and melt the weeds in it. The hard part is making a barrier that won't melt or catch fire. I still don't know what to use, but we can probably find something nearby. Maybe we can make glass on the beach."

Why don't you make a flat layer from the floating weeds without a barrier and then cut a wing shape out of it?

Godzilla stopped halfway through tracing Mothra's wing, looked at the gouge he'd already carved into the runway, and said, "I guess that would be easier."

As they dragged the nets onto the runway, Mothra said, Rodan visited today.

Godzilla's head jerked up. "Has the freak tried to kill him yet?"

No.

"Is he being mind controlled?"

I'm not sure. I don't think so—he doesn't think so—but I don't know.

Godzilla let out a low, displeased grumble. "What's going on over there?"

And Mothra didn't know—not for sure—so, for a moment, they were both silent. They finished piling the nets together in the middle of the runway. Godzilla's dorsal plates began glowing—not their usual piercingly bright blue, but a very dull glow that flickered near the bases of his plates like he was trying unsteadily to keep his power low. The light traveled far slower than usual up his back. He opened his mouth halfway as the light neared his head.

Finally, uncertainly, Mothra said, I think they might like Rodan.

Godzilla's plates flashed nearly white. He hacked out a ball of blue light, then let out a cough that rattled windows.

Sorry.

"Timing!" Godzilla looked at the bit at the edge of the nets that had been incinerated, whined, and started gearing up for another, more controlled burst. To the Chen twins' surprise, the conversation continued; apparently either Godzilla was also telepathic, or could simply think thoughts that Mothra could translate as easily as his usual speech. What do you mean, "like"? As a mate? As a meal? As something to beat up?

(Someone on the Monarch ship made a mental note to call up Mark and tell him that Godzilla also wasn't sure whether Ghidorah was looking to Rodan for food, a fight, or a fuck.)

As a mate, Mothra said. Or a friend? Something positive. Something social. Either they like him, or they're trying to trick Rodan into liking them—and if it's the latter, I don't know what they're after.

If it's not the latter? This time, Godzilla got it right. His atomic breath looked more like the flame of an oversized bunsen burner: translucent blue, mostly steady, faintly flickering. He began slowly melting down the massive pile of fishing nets.

If they really do like him... then I still don't know what they're after. I have no idea what someone from another world thinks mating is for.

You'll have a better idea than any of us. You're the only one that's been to other planets.

(Ling Chen clapped both hands over her mouth and let out a long, quiet, high-pitched noise. The Monarch employees, watching an automatic google-translated English copy of the conversation going up on the ship's main screen as Ilene and Ling typed it up in Mandarin, each silently flipped their shit in their own personal ways. One shouted "No!" Someone else just slid out of her chair to the floor, quietly repeating, "Oh my god." Another kicked over a waste bin, laced his hands in his hair, and stared at the ceiling, overcome with emotion. )

I've never been to their planet, Mothra said. I don't know what to expect. But, I think that it means that we're safe. For now.

For now. The nets were now a massive greyish-orange-teal ooze stretching out along the runway. Godzilla shut his mouth and straightened up. The grass sizzled where the nets ran over the side of the runway. "For now—as long as the freak stays interested in Rodan. And as long as Rodan doesn't turn him down. And as long as another Rodan doesn't hatch and try to mate him. And as long as Rodan remains alive."

(Ling made notes differentiating between the two different words Godzilla was using that she and her sister were both putting down as "Rodan" in their transcriptions: "Rodan (personal name; untranslatable?)" versus "Rodan (species name; 'volcano bird/pteranodon')." Ilene came back and changed "volcano bird/pteranodon," with a tiny smirk, to the English "volcanic roc.")

More or less, Mothra said.

"Then we should kill him while he's got his guard down."

Rodan will defend them.

"Then we get backup before we go."

You don't want to have to kill Rodan.

"No! I don't! But if it's between him dying or our whole world, I'll rip his head off!" Trees trembled with the force of Godzilla's roar. "If it's only a matter of time before the freak wants to destroy the world again, then we shouldn't wait around until he decides to. We can't let him make the first attack. It only takes him a few seconds to seize every mind on the planet. What if he gets me next time?"

I'd save you, Godzilla.

(Although Ilene wrote "Godzilla" in her transcription, she almost absent-mindedly included a parenthetical translation for the name that Mothra was really calling him. The watching Monarch employees were once again thrown into paroxysms of shocked disbelief.)

Godzilla was silent for a moment. "I know you would," he said. "That's not the point. The point is, we lost to him last time. We might not be able to beat him unless we take him by surprise. But you don't want to, do you? Why?"

Mothra didn't reply immediately. Instead, she lay back down, laying her wing along the length of the solid sheet of nylon on the runway. Godzilla started tracing around it with a claw tip again. What if they can change? she finally asked. Maybe we don't have to fight them again. Maybe this is a chance to get them to integrate into this world. Maybe they'll have a chance to heal.

(Underneath the word "heal" was this sense of massive, dark wounds, damage that felt as deep and ancient as Earth's very tectonic plates—something broken in Ghidorah's psyche that still ground together painfully inside him, spawning earthquakes and jagged mountains and chasmic trenches and volcanic explosions in his soul. The feeling was so strong and so dark that Ilene briefly had to stop typing, pressing a hand over her aching heart. Ling did her best to transcribe it, but ended up with only a string of characters that translated vaguely like "pain break scar wound darkness psychic hurt trauma?")

"Healing is the exact opposite of the thing I want to help him do."

I know. But if we can—wouldn't that be safer for the world? If we fight again, even if we win, people will die.

"Only small people."

Mothra ignored him. And that's if we win. They probably would have won last time if they hadn't gone to Rodan. If we don't have to fight them at all, wouldn't that be better for keeping the world safe?

Godzilla made a low growl that the Chens couldn't figure out how to translate any way other than "Noise of grudging resignation." He straightened up. "Okay, your new wing's cut out."

Mothra rolled over, Godzilla pried the wing off of the runway with a creaking cracking sound, and turned it around to hold it up to the remains of her injured wing.

How are you going to attach it?

Godzilla broke off another piece of plastic from the runway, held it on the other side of her damaged wing, and said, "I'm going to melt it a little bit to seal around your wing."

For a creature without anything in the way of human facial muscles, Mothra pulled off a very convincing look of utter disbelief.

"It might burn a little," he told her.

Okay, she said, resigned. Fine. I guess it can't make it worse. Do it.

She let out a long, shrill hissing noise as he melted the end of the new wing and the opposite piece of plastic together around the remains of her damaged wing, and both Chens' faces screwed up in pain. When it was done, Godzilla held her wing until it had completely cooled, and then stepped back. "Okay," he said. "Try it out."

She moved her new wing up and down slowly. It's light, she said. She attempted to flap it.

On the second flap, it snapped in half. Mothra and Godzilla both watched as the tip arced high in the air, flew off into the distance, and landed half a mile away standing up in the sand of Kuta Beach.

They looked at each other.

"We'll figure out how to fix it tomorrow," Godzilla said.

Mothra climbed onto his back. He trudged over to the broken wing, handed it to her to hold, and sank back into the ocean to swim Mothra back to Infant Island.

Although Godzilla's plastic-recycling jump into the brave new future of environmental conservationism was all but ignored by the media, in several days, one tiny detail out of the Chen twins' transcription of their conversation caught the fickle eye of mass media. A new headline dominated countless news sites' front pages:

GODZILLA'S REAL NAME: "SWEET FISH"?

Most of the articles were accompanied by an image of Godzilla photoshopped next to a pile of red Swedish Fish candy.

###

(Replies/reblogs are welcome & encouraged! Check the “source” link below for my masterlist of KOTM fics and Rodorah fics in this verse, as well as my AO3 and Ko-fi links.)

[luninosity]

feettootie said:MOR – I mean! thank you. If course I mean Thank You! I’d never be SO rude as to demand an end to Justin’s suffering Right Now. …nope, not me. :-)                            

~

...more, you say? Following on from the previous...

#

“We’ll leave.” Mara slid to her feet. “We don’t want to…to make him feel more than he has to. But…give me your hand.”

 Kris did. The shoved-up sleeve of his shirt caught his eye: indigo, because Justin liked purple; a deeper solid color, because he wasn’t young enough for transparent or fish-net anymore, but with little glittery bits in, under stage jewelry.

 Because he’d been performing. Because it’d been their show—

 He wanted to start shaking. He felt sick.

 Justin’s aunt touched his hand; sparks seared, flared, settled into skin. Kris had worn Justin’s demon-mark, the claiming-mark, for so long that he rarely thought about it; Justin’s fingerprints settled easily in smoke and scarlet over his forearm. Protection from anyone else, Justin had said once, and a promise: Kris could touch the mark, press his own fingers into it, and call his demon-husband to his side.

 The back of his hand glimmered in ruby sunfire, now. Mara said, “It’ll last for two days, more or less, that one. I won’t renew it unless you ask. If you need us…”

 “I’ll call you.” Kris wiggled fingers. “I promise.”

 “Good,” she said, and touched Justin’s shoulder again. “Pet? We’re going. We’ll come back if you ask.”

 Justin blinked, yawned, winced, managed the pencil-sketch of a smile. “Thank you.”

 “Oh, don’t thank us,” Mara said, “you’re going to be human for a while, and we’re very sorry,”

 “I am human.” Justin’s smile grew a fraction. “And Kris will take care of me.”

 “He’d better,” said his aunt, and all three demons vanished, because they knew a good exit line; the air tasted of smoke and hot coals and wild flowers, after.

 Night fell like wings around them: amber light, sofa-cushions, New York twinkling companionably through wide windows. Stars and lights craned their necks; Justin curled himself further under the blanket.

 Kris tucked knitted stripes more closely around him. “Are you cold, love?”

 “A little. Mostly it’s just that everything hurts…” Justin snuck a hand up; Kris took it and kept it and guarded it ferociously. “I’ve pushed myself before, but this feels worse.”

 “D’you want coffee? Tea? Our bed?” He rubbed a thumb over the back of Justin’s hand, marveling: Justin was real and alive and loved him. “Anything.”

 “You’re trying to do something,” Justin said. “To do something, make something, fix something…”

 “Please let me?”

 “It’s not fixable,” Justin said. “You heard them…”

 “They said rest. And stay calm, and quiet.” He lifted Justin’s hand, dropped a kiss there. “I’m here for all of that.”

 “You love me.”

 “I do. Married you, didn’t I?”

 This got a laugh, though small; he’d guessed it would. “Kris Starr,” Justin said. “Married. To me.”

 “To the best person I’ve ever known.” One more kiss. “You didn’t answer me about the tea. And—I know your aunts said human doctors wouldn’t help, but would it, at all? You are half human, and they don’t know everything.”

 “They don’t, but I don’t think it’d make a difference.” Justin scrunched up that nose. “I know what’s wrong—I know how I feel—and there’s not really a fix for this kind of burnout. I could maybe use some extra-strength painkillers, but that’s about it.”

 His phone buzzed again, with a mild sense of shame about interruptions. Kris planned to ignore it some more; Justin said, abruptly horrified, “My family. The news—”

 Kris said a word or two that his mother would’ve never countenanced, and snatched up the mobile. Family. Yes. Six missed calls from Justin’s parents and assorted siblings, eight texts, and three other calls, one from Justin’s best friend Anna, one from his friend and employer Willie Randolph and one from Kris’s own best friend and former bassist. “Gods, even Reggie called you—”

 “You don’t have your phone.” Justin struggled to sit up; Kris dove in for support. “The stories…”

 The stories splashed themselves across headlines and home pages and social media. Accident at Kris Starr concert. Collapsing balcony. Heroic rescue. Lots of pictures of Kris and Justin standing side by side on stage; a few less tactful snapshots of Kris cradling Justin in the wake of calamity.

 Kris scrolled hastily past those. No need to see it. Or to relive it. He was still living it. “Should I call your mum?”

 “Yes, please…”

 They did. Justin’s family answered in a riot of emotion, despite the late hour. Both Professors Moore-Bautista were not only awake but alarmed; the twins and little Isabella had evidently stayed awake, worried about their oldest brother, and even James and Stephanie joined in via shared video call. Justin’s closest sibling pushed up his glasses and asked, “What caused the collapse? Do they know?”

 James always had been an engineer at heart, just like his wife; they were working on the interdimensional gateway project out at that California lab, Kris knew. James also looked too much like Justin: younger, plus the glasses and minus the demon half, but they had the same chin and the same nose and the same unconscious head-tilt when listening. Kris’s heart couldn’t quite handle that at the moment, and tensed a little.

 “We don’t know,” Justin answered, “but someone will. Probably just age; it was an old venue…”

 “Too old,” Kris grumbled.

 “Justin…” Justin’s father had always looked exactly like Kris’s mental idea of a historian: tall and thin, all salt-and-pepper, scholarly and gentlemanly over a secret giddy heart that’d once upon a time jumped into the pit at Kris Starr concerts and loved a demon wife and raised a half-demon son. Right now his eyes brimmed over with anxiety. “The news says you’re hurt?”

 “I’m…” Justin hesitated. “Kris is fine. I’m…not physically hurt.”

 “Yes you are,” Kris said.

 Justin’s family got more worried.

 Justin sighed. “It’s just burnout, okay? Nothing hit me or anything, I just over-extended myself. I’ll be okay.”

 “That sort of psychic trauma can be—”

 “Kells,” Justin said to his stepmother, “I know. I’m going to be fine.” Affection colored his tone, clear and bright. “The aunts came over and checked on me. It’s going to be not exactly fun for a while, but they said I should be okay.”

 They’d said they thought so. Different. Not the same. Kris stared hard at his husband. Justin yawned and put his head on Kris’s shoulder. “Mostly I need to rest. We only wanted to check in. We’re all right.”

 “Don’t do anything much,” Justin’s stepmother said, “and we can send Andy and Eddie over with anything you need, or at least throw some egg rolls or soup or turon and caramel sauce through one of James’s miniature portal prototypes, there’s still one in the lab out back and I could fiddle with the coordinates—”

 “That’s where that one is,” James said, illuminated. “I thought I’d left it on campus…”

 “You left that one with your parents,” Steph said, “and also the hyperstring predictor we were working on, the one that didn’t work, and also the interdimensional camera is still in your mom’s lab, but we’ll pick it up when we’re up there for the symposium next week—”

 “Oh, right, and we can drop by and say hi to Justin and Kris too…”

 “You’re always welcome,” Justin said, “even if that was so unsubtle you might’ve been shouting it through the portal. I really will be fine, guys.”

 Every single family member narrowed eyes at him. Justin held up hands in surrender. “Check on me if you want. But I’ve got Kris. I’m totally taken care of.”

 “You are.” Kris folded an arm around him. “And you’re going to rest, after this, and let me do that.” This time Justin’s family all beamed at him. Kris did not mind. He loved Justin. That was that. Simple.

 Justin’s family got off the phone, with admonitions about resting and being comfortable. Justin yawned again, and winced, and moved a hand to rub his temple. Then winced again.

 “That hurts?” Kris took over the gentle caresses. “Everything hurts, you said. Oh—hang on, we do have some sort of painkillers, I think…want them?”

 “Oh gods yes. Please.”

 Kris practically ran. Found a half-empty bottle—old but not expired—in a kitchen cabinet. Grabbed some water and some biscuits—chocolate, which was good, Justin liked chocolate—and ran back. His demon needed energy. “Here. Also we need to do some grocery shopping.”

 “Well, you’ve been on tour.” Justin took pills obediently, sipped water, nibbled when Kris offered him food. “We didn’t expect to be home much…”

 “We are now. I’ll get anything you want. Delivered.”

 “Love you. Can there be pizza?”

 “There can definitely be pizza. And your garlic breadsticks.” He fed Justin another cookie. “Any better?”

 “Kris, I’ve only just taken them.”

 “I know. I just…”

 “I know,” Justin said. “I know. I think…I do want to try to sleep, for a while. Maybe it’ll hurt less. You should call Reggie. And maybe call Anna back for me? I would, but I’m so tired.”

 “Rest,” Kris said, heart choking his throat. “Rest, love. I’ll handle that.”

 Justin closed both eyes—browner more human eyes, less laced with mysterious spice and smoke—and settled into blankets on the sofa. Kris took a deep breath, bent forward, braced elbows on knees. Scrubbed hands over his face.

 Justin was alive. That was everything.

 The coffee table nudged his leg in sympathy. He put a hand on it.

 Justin was hurt—would continue to be hurt—would be more human. Not fixable. Only rest, and time. The shiver struck his spine and made him shudder.

 He made himself call Anna. Justin’s best friend listened with typical practicality, asked whether she should come over, not necessarily this instant but soon, and if so whether she could pick up any shopping for them. Kris nearly wept at the gesture, which earned a, “Don’t you dare, Kris Starr,” followed by, “if you cry then I’ll cry, and then I’ll have to evaporate your next cup of tea before you drink it.” Anna had minor and entirely human water-related magical affinities; Kris had sometimes wondered whether she and Justin got along so well because of the complementary elements.

 She promised to come by the next day, and to bring groceries and homemade banana bread; she audibly remembered which of them was incapacitated and unable to cook, and also promised to bring some actual meals. She also said she’d stop by Justin’s high-rise editorial office and pick up any physical manuscripts or advance copies of books or authorial contracts. Kris thanked her again, and went on to the next call he’d realized he needed to make, which involved Justin’s boss. Fortunately Wilhelmina Randolph, head of that extensive multimedia publishing empire, adored Justin; she’d known him, or at least known of him, ever since he’d been an excited underground music scene reporter writing for fanzines and punk-rock outlets and occasionally consensually falling into bed with one or more story subjects. She’d seen the news as well; she told Kris to not worry about anything, and to focus on Justin’s health.

 Kris eyed his husband. Justin was asleep now, smaller than usual under heaps of blankets, long legs strangely vulnerable. Even his hair looked wrong: so completely ordinary, soft and lovely but in a purely human way, falling in washed-out ginger waves across a pillow.

 He felt the corners and edges and harmonies of anguish tremble, an explosion of empathic rage and grief and love that did not escape. He did not let it.

 Calm. Warmth. Soothing.

 He made tea, straightforward Earl Grey, and breathed in the scent of it. Justin did not wake.

 He texted Reggie. Reg called back, which meant he was actually genuinely concerned. “Kris? Why’ve you got Justin’s phone?”

 “Mine’s still…someplace. Dressing room. England. Someone’ll bring it.” He looked at Justin and the sofa; he looked at his tea. His hand shook. He set the mug down. “He’s…he’s really hurt, Reg.”

 “Oh, gods,” Reg said. “Kris, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You want me to fly out there? To get you anything, to send you anything? Is he…how bad is it?” And his voice was the voice of the friend who’d been there when Christopher Thompson’d picked up his first guitar, and who’d stood side by side with Kris at Sarah Thompson’s funeral—she’d loved Reggie Jones like a second son—and who’d been the best man at Kris and Justin’s wedding.

 “I don’t know,” Kris whispered, and pressed a hand over his mouth; somehow a minute later he found himself sitting on the floor in the hallway, sobs rattling his chest while Reggie talked to him urgently, gently, with love.

 Eventually he ran out of tears. Justin hadn’t stirred; Kris, sitting on the hardwood planks, felt oddly lighter, if shakier. “…sorry.”

 “Nah, you needed that.” Reggie sounded surprisingly comfortable with being long-distance emotional support. “Get it out. ‘S fine. You said he’s doing okay? But he is hurt?”

 “He’s human,” Kris whispered, “and he’s in pain,” and tried to explain more while Reg listened.

 Reggie said, when he was done, “So he’ll recover. They said so.”

 “Yeah…but…what if—”

 “Kris, they said so.”

 “I just want him to not be hurt…”

 “So you’ve got painkillers, maybe some willow bark, cloves, stuff somebody with some herbal healing gifts worked on? And food. I know he needs food. I’ve seen your adorable husband eat.”

 “I’ll get him pizza…”

 “Okay. You’re gonna be okay. You know what he needs, yeah? And he’ll tell you if something’s wrong.”

 “He will.” Justin would.

 “Okay, then.”

 “Have I ever told you,” Kris said wearily, “how much I don’t deserve you?” The floor was getting extra-hard; he thought he could probably get up now. His tea was waiting patiently over on the table.

 “You have,” Reggie said, “but you can always say it again. Check in with me tomorrow, maybe?”

 “Sure.”

 “Love you both,” Reg said, and got off the phone; if Kris was any judge, his former-bassist-turned-vineyard-owner was already planning care baskets to send them.

 The thought made him smile. Reggie did care. Justin had friends; Kris and Justin had friends.

 He peeled himself off the floor, and went to sit with his husband.

  Justin slept, on and off, for the rest of the night. He did not sleep easily; he woke with small sounds of pain, and creases between eyes. Kris, heart knotting his throat, offered painkillers, tea, coffee, various foods—sweet, savory, anything Justin indicated interest in—and stayed awake. His hands seemed to help: stroking Justin’s hair, kneading Justin’s back or the nape of his neck, being present and steady. A few knots unwound in his chest when Justin smiled tiredly at him, and nibbled pizza, and murmured, “That feels good…” while nestling more into Kris’s touch.

 Trusting. Relaxed. So unguarded about placing himself into Kris’s care. Justin was a fucking miracle. But then Kris had always thought so.

 He sang to his husband, along with the backrubs and hair-petting. His own songs, love songs, ballad rock new and old. Some decades-old silly pop love ditties. Some lullabies, the one or two that he vaguely recalled in his mother’s voice. Justin turned his head, at that last, enough to nuzzle a kiss into Kris’s caressing hand.

 Justin at another point yawned and said, “I can make it to bed, I think, if you want?” Kris shrugged a shoulder and told him that anywhere was fine, the sofa was fine, not moving at all would be fine. Justin pointed out that their bed was bigger and therefore better for full-body cuddling. Kris gave in, in part because Justin did look marginally better, or at least less pale.

 In their bedroom, Justin sank down on the end of the bed, which held him up anxiously; the rainbow-striped duvet tucked itself around him. Kris, heart fluttering in his throat, touched Justin’s shirt, the edge of skinny jeans; Justin laughed briefly, an escape of air. “You just like me naked.”

 “I do. But I was thinking more about you being comfortable.”

 “I know.” Justin smothered a yawn in a hand. “I can change, I think…pajama pants…”

 “Yeah, that was the plan.” Kris found the cozy flannel ones, the type designed for New York winters, plus a long-sleeved old Phantom Fighters shirt that Justin wore a lot around the apartment on icy nights, and came back over. “Want help?”

 Justin made a not-quite-annoyed face, sighed, and held up arms. “Yeah…”

 “Love you,” Kris affirmed, with a kiss to the tip of his nose; and slid rock-show clothing off and protective warm clothing on, with care.

 He did love Justin’s naked body: slim hips, smooth skin, lean thighs, that lovely long swinging cock, that pert backside. His fingers knew the feeling of all those places, the sensations of Justin under his touch. They wanted to linger; he gazed at his own hands over Justin’s waist. Justin wasn’t generally fragile—demon magic, runner’s muscles, punk-kid boots, and writer’s cleverness abounded—and was fearless, exploratory, delighted, in bed.

 Justin was injured now, and moved as if breathing hurt. Kris curled a hand over his hip, tugged pajama pants up, and leaned in to kiss his stomach: feather-light, no demands, full of too many emotions to express.

 Justin put a hand out, touched Kris’s hair, coaxed his gaze up. Their eyes met; Justin smiled.

 In bed, twined together, Kris read to him for a while—a history of nineteen-fifties all-girl all-witch groups—and hummed a few songs for him and held tea for him to sip and some trail mix for him to nibble. Justin, drowsy and safe, draped an arm around Kris, snuggled in, and drifted in and out.

 Kris loved him. Kris loved every piercing, terrifying, potentially heartbreaking moment of life with him. Wouldn’t change a thing. Here in their bedroom, under the kindly glow of a single lamp, some wrist cuffs and the collar from their wedding-night in the drawer under the bed, he understood as much.

 He loved Justin, and Justin had the kind of heart that’d leap in to help people; Kris wouldn’t take that away. He’d never want to. Not when Justin could still feel that way, could still love the world that way, in beautiful courageous defiance of an ex-boyfriend and a past and a world still a little unsure about demonkind, though that was getting better.

 He hated Justin being hurt. But he could never ask his husband, his hero, the man who’d saved his life long before any of the night’s events, to be less than a marvel. Justin had looked at Kris Starr, cranky and petulant aging rock legend, and had seen someone worth salvaging, caring for, loving. Even before they’d been lovers. Even when Kris had insulted him and pretended they weren’t friends.

 Justin loved like that: a gift, freely given. Because he thought someone—an old rock star, a friend, a person he’d only just met, a writer he’d offered a book contract—deserved to be loved.

 Sometimes he couldn’t believe Justin had married him. Sometimes he could believe it, and then he swore on every single battle-lined bit of whatever soul he’d got left that he’d make Justin’s life as splendid and delicious and full of cherishing as his husband deserved.

 He’d stopped reading, as the sun came up. He thought Justin might be asleep; he tried not to yawn, and failed. Not as young as he used to be. Not as bouncy. But Justin needed him.

 Justin folded the arm more tightly around Kris’s waist, murmured, “You can sleep, I’m here,” and wriggled closer: all worn-out half-demon loyal fierceness, even when mostly mortal. “You should rest too. With me.”

 “You sure?” He ran a hand over Justin’s head. So human. Very human. Red and dull. “Was kinda thinking I’d stay awake, in case you needed me.”

 “I do need you,” Justin explained into Kris’s shoulder. “Right here. I’m okay…sort of…mostly, anyway…I’ll wake you if I’m not. If I’m hurting worse. I promise. Sleep with me.”

 Kris sighed.

 “Please?”

 “…all right. But you’ll wake me if you feel worse.”

 “I promise, Kris.”

 “Even a tiny bit worse. Even if you only think you might feel worse. Or you’re thirsty. Or hungry. Or—”

 “Kris.”

 “…I love you,” Kris muttered, defeated. “Love.”

 “I know.” Justin waited for Kris to flip the light off, then fit himself into elderly knightly arms. “I love you. Always. My Kris.”

 “Yeah,” Kris breathed, as Justin’s human hair kissed his chin, as light crept around curtain-edges and traced familiar bedposts and doorknobs in gold, “yours.”

[whump-the-caretaker]

Shifter pt. 3

previous / about the characters / next 

Avery woke, head pounding with whatever had put him out, and squinted up to see where he was. 

A cot. Small room sealed by a glass wall. A lab.

He jolted up off the cot and searched for… there. Beck. His stomach twisted, his eyes sticking when they landed on the table and the box holding his husband.

“No,” he breathed.

Beck was watching him from across the room, human this time and sitting with his knees drawn to his chest. The glass case was just as horrifying in the morning as it had been the night before, size and shape more akin to a dog kennel than anything that should be holding a person. His clothes were in shreds around him, apparently torn in a shift. 

“Are you okay? What’s happeni--” 

Beck shook his head shortly, eyes flicking sideways to something just out of sight. Avery frowned, moving to the glass wall separating them, and craned to see. 

The man who'd caught him, who'd stopped him from breaking through to Beck, was adjusting some sort of camera setup, pointed at Beck. Another sweep of fury flushed through him. 

The man nodded, pressing a button on the recorder and then scooped up a box that looked like an MRE. He watched him cross to Beck, slide it into the case through a quickly sealed slot and wait. 

Beck glanced at him and then picked up the box, flipping it open and wrinkling his nose in disgust. “What the fuck is this?”

“You were the one demanding food. That’s what you’re going to get for today. I’m sure you can think of something that can eat that.”

“Go to hell,” he growled, shoving it away and putting a hand under his nose to block out the smell. 

The man shrugged and turned away, heading for Avery’s holding room instead. 

“I really do apologize for this,” he said as he approached the cell wall. His entire demeanor had changed, and something about the shift made Avery deeply uncomfortable. “I hope you’ll understand, I can’t let you interfere. Whether you agree or not, we’ve already begun the process and stopping now would jeopardize the results.”

“What results?” Avery demanded. “What process?”

“Understanding of the shifter biology is very limited. The extremes of their capabilities have never truly been tested. I’ve begun the work with several others of the type, but never long term and never outside of… shall we say a more supervised study.”

“This is the first time you’ve kidnapped someone, you’re saying.”

“Now, that’s rather harsh. I’m only borrowing it from you for a short time. I’ll give it back when I’m finished.”

The hair on the back of Avery’s neck stood on end. “Did you just call my husband an it?”

“It’s a shifter.”

“He’s a person.”

“Mm. Interesting." He just looked at Avery for a moment, like he was curious about the idea. The idea that Avery thought Beck was a person. "Now, I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to keep you here a little while. Can’t have you breaking in every time I turn my back. I’ll do my utmost to keep you comfortable.”

The man glanced back at Beck, who appeared to be focused on trying not to gag at the smell coming off of whatever was in the box. “I’ll be back tomorrow to see if we can’t get you into a few new shapes."

Beck flipped him off and waited for him to leave the room. 

“What the fuck?” Avery breathed when they were alone again. 

“He’s a piece of shit,” Beck muttered, cutting off with a dry heave. 

“What did he give you?” 

“Rotten meat.”

“Shit.” Avery smacked the glass wall. “Has he hurt you? What has he been doing?”

“Just making me shift. I’m fine.”

Avery doubted it.

“Goddamn it,” Beck growled, kicking his legs out against the side of the case in frustration. If he didn’t do something, he was going to puke, empty stomach or not, and it would only smell worse. “This is disgusting.” 

He pressed his eyes closed and reached for shapes he didn’t usually call on. Vulture, hyena, corvid… He ended up a coyote, the most familiar carrion eater he had, and was grateful for the moment that animals didn’t feel embarrassed the way humans did. The shame was still in his mind as he set his muzzle down and consumed the revolting contents of the box, but it didn’t have the same bite to it. He cleaned the scraps until even his sensitive nose couldn’t detect any traces.

Finished, he went to shift back and froze. It wasn’t the eating part that was dangerous as a human. It was the digesting. 

He was stuck.

Fuck. 

Unable to stop a low whine escaping his throat, he backed up until he was pressed into the corner, instincts driving him to put a wall at his back and lay down with his head on his paws. He was just going to have to wait it out. 

***

He startled awake and back to human form at a clatter near his cage. 

The man was there, setting up various instruments on the table beside the glass. Beck shivered with alarm that he’d gotten so close without waking him. Was it just the exhaustion settling in?

“Now,” he said, seeing Beck sitting up and eyeing him warily. “We really do need to get down to business.” 

“Leave me alone,” he protested. Despite his best efforts, it came out weak more than defiant. His mouth tasted foul from his meal as a coyote, and the dull ache of too much shifting was only settling deeper into his bones despite the rest.

The man ignored him. “Your clothes obviously didn’t shift with you, but your tattoos do. At what point does a foreign object start to shift with your body?”

Beck shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“Of course you don’t. That’s why we’re finding out. Now, you don’t have any piercings. Strange for someone with tattoos.”

“The holes stay but not the studs,” Beck answered, eager to skip the trial of that. 

“Hmm. You demonstrated last night that stomach contents remain in their foreign body state until digested.”

Beck flinched, eyes snapping to the camera. He hadn’t known he was giving the man anything when he did that. 

The man nodded, seeming to reach a conclusion. He selected one of the marbles and readied the airhole plugs. 

“Wait, no,” Beck sat up straight. “Keep that shit away from me. I won’t--” The marble dropped in beside him and he grabbed for it, wanting to push it back out. But the holes were already plugged and the glass shattered under his fingers. 

The gas smelled sweet this time, coiling up and coating his nostrils. He pressed away from it and braced himself, waiting, but a shift didn’t come. When he went to look up at the man, ask what had happened, he found he couldn’t move. 

He heard the sensor chime and the top of the case open.

Panic was enough to trigger a groan and roll of his head, but that was all the movement he could manage. 

“I don’t know how I’m expected to keep sanitary conditions...” he grumbled to himself, gathering the empty ration boxes, broken spheres, scraps of soiled clothing. 

A cold, damp cloth wiped over Beck’s skin, spot cleaning. He heard Avery swearing, but it only made the violation strike deeper. The alcohol swab felt the same as the other cleaning, and he couldn’t see to prepare himself, so the first incision in his shoulder came as a shock. 

No, no, no.

“N--” His tongue was heavy, refused to choke out the word. He felt a series of prods and scrapes, a set of stitches, and then the stick of medical tape. “No.” 

The lid closed, locked again, and the man stepped away, cleaning up the mess now on the table beside him. He put the tools away, spoke calmly in the face of Avery’s fuming demands, and arrived back at the case as Beck was getting control enough to push himself up. 

“What have you done to me?” he slurred.

“It’s a small implant. Just to see. Now, I need your cooperation for this next part, so listen to me very closely.“

Beck shuddered. 

“Shift down. A mouse will do. Stay for at least ten seconds.”

Beck was afraid.

He’d been angry in this place, he’d been violated, but this time he was afraid. He shook his head, though, obstinately sure he couldn’t bring himself to cooperate.

“How about I pick for you?” he asked, holding up one of the spheres.

“How about you shove it up your ass?”

“If something goes wrong, you’re not going to want to be stuck. Now. Shift.”

"Leave him alone," Avery snapped from across the room.

Avery. He closed his eyes and sucked in a breath.

Just one shape.

It was better than Avery seeing him screaming if he was forced into something and suffering.

He shifted.

Fear was not a good place to begin when slipping into a rodent’s mind. They were fearful creatures and, combined with the searing pain in his flank, his heart was set racing out of control. 

He held, tried to count, panicked, tried to count, three, four--he couldn’t hold it. The mouse fled and he was dumped back on the floor a human, twisting to get a hand to his shoulder with a strangled cry. 

He heard Avery shouting from across the room, but the words didn’t register to his pain shocked brain.

“Fuck,” he gasped. “Jesus. What the fuck did you do to me?”

“Mm.” the man said, displeased. “It’s come out,” he pointed out.

Beck’s hand came away dripping in blood and holding a solid chunk of something. A metal device the size of a quarter, rounded on the back like a half sphere. He dropped it to bring his hand to stop the flow of blood. The man had taken all the scraps of fabric from his clothes, so there was nothing to use to stem the blood. 

“Subcutaneous metal is rejected…” The man was talking to himself. Beck ground his teeth. “I’ll go see what we have in development. Clean yourself up.”

Only the last part was said to Beck. He dropped gauze, a few antiseptic wipes, and a roll of tape onto a tray and slid it in to Beck.

Beck waited until he was gone to move, to take any of the items he’d been given. 

“Beck?” Avery’s voice broke. 

He flinched at the reminder that his husband was watching him get tortured. “I’m sorry you have to see this.” 

Avery kicked the wall between them. “I’m getting us out of here. I swear to you, okay?”

Beck smiled tightly and nodded.