#vktrs

[kaiju-naut]

Artfight attack on @/bluerasbunny (wasn’t sure if pinging is okay)!!! Go give VKTRS a read if you haven’t already :)

[bluerasbunny]

VIDEO KILLED THE RADIO STAR

Sun/Moon x Reader (Strictly SFW!)

Chapter 1; I heard you on the wireless (Back in Fifty Two)

"Must be quite the fantabulous climber, those trees are no easy feat! I would know, I tried myself! Real doozy of a day-"

The morning hosts voice was magnetizing.

Its pull was intense, drawing you in to the waves of his enthusiasm and the mystery of his silence, his identity and presence. His rambling, his humor, his cadence, the gentle tapping against their desk, their phone- all of it intrigued you, lit a spark in your chest that traveled to the front of your mind. It left you longing for more. Anything at all, anything that wasn't the elusive persona of a radio star.

"And as always, we hope you have a radiant day! Take care, superstar! Until next sunrise!"

Who are you?

AKA; as promised, the one where the DCA's are 80s radio hosts with a twist; no one knows who they are.

After 4 months straight of work, it's HERE! The fic itself!

Thank you all so much for your patience! This has been a long time in the works, i've put so much into perfecting the story and getting everything done and flowing and i'm SO glad to finally be releasing it!

Thank you so much for the support and love! A massive thank you to the DCA Palooza as well for the awesome people there and giving me an environment to flourish and create the fics i've only ever dreamed of making! It means the world to me and I certainly wouldn't be publishing this without the Palooza's help!

A big thank you to Cider, Mouse, Sleepy, Comet, Alf, Sooty, Maven, Kaden and Lake as well! You guys are awesome, as is everyone else in the Palooza! <3

Thank you for reading, and we hope you enjoy chapter one!

Chapter 2 will be out soon, with more of Sun and Moon this time!

VKTRS' playlist, to set the mood!

[completed-glowstick-showdown]

Semifinals!

Repost because I accidentally put Rudolph instead of Danny. My bad, I’m sorry.

[it-was-summer]

Video Killed The Radio Star Remake Masterlist

This work DOES contain sensitive material! Remember that if you are struggling, you are not alone! All Chapters that contain this kind of material will be marked (**). Enjoy!

Ao3: Video Killed the Radio Star

Tape #1: Tape Contents: You start recording videos for the BAU once you find out you have a stalker. **

Tape #2: Tape Contents: The team starts to comb through your apartment. Meanwhile, you spend your time in a less fiery version of hell. **

Tape #3: Tape Contents: Spencer and Derek are sent to discuss your abduction with Adeline. You fight back a sexual and physical attack from Heather. Heather reveals her plans for what will happen if anyone finds you. **

Tape #4: Tape Contents: We briefly dive into Heather's past. Adeline makes a call that gives the team a reason to visit the suburbs. Heather makes a decision. You see something other than pink for the first time in four days. **

Tape #5: Tape Contents: Waking up to a bunch of hands on you in the hospital doesn't go over well with you. Spencer delivers on a promise he made to a little girl, and then some. **

[rainbow-wolf120]

It's about time I show y'all my stinky CLH oc that I hate (love)

Meet Viveo! The voice of Eden and main antagonist of S2 in my dreams!

He is a podcast host, co-owner of the "Just Dance" Club, and controls all the radio stations in Eden.

(So, Rayman, but in radio form)

Viveo is arrogant and views himself higher than his peers. He may be a selfish bitch at times, but he is an entertaining guy to talk to. He knows how to keep a conversation running for as long as he pleases. He’s rather competitive however, always wanting to be the best of the best. He views Rayman more as a rival than a friend, but from the outside it doesn’t look like that. He owns his own podcast, all of the stations of Eden, and a club so he’s super successful. His TV screen works as a camera and can play back past memories of his, he could also use it to impersonate voices, which helps to make a podcast episode on a whim. Some say that his screen could hypnotize people, but no one has been able to prove it. He’s also pretty manipulative and will do anything to be the best (He maybe was the one who sent Rayman the message idkkk)

Now, no one really knows about Viveo’s past, and he’s pretty hush hush about it. He went to the same college as Rayman and the two became good friends for being different and wanting to entertain people. They graduated together and became the poster boys for Eden, with Viveo being every narrator's voice people hear on shows. The two had a pretty good bond, but Viveo found himself jealous of Rayman’s fame at times, unhappy with the lack of credit he gets. He’s a valuable aspect in the Eden machine, being able to easily persuade people. Viveo actually knows about the wrongdoings of Eden, but he doesn’t care. He’s not in poverty or scraping to survive so why bother. He knows if he speaks out against it, he’ll be fired instantly, removing everything he worked for. So, if you can’t beat them, join them.

(So, Rayman, but he's a bitch)

Viveo teams up with Red and Fakeman in S2 (who are a duo in my silly little heart). They're so of a trio, but Viveo's the leader because he's the most experienced (joining Eden around the same time as Rayman)

I love this stinky TV man with all my heart as you can tell by the millions of drawings. He wasn't my first CLH oc, but he is my dearest. Dunno, maybe I'm biased.

For funsies, y'all get an edit of him <3

[justdanceshipbracket]

Just Dance Ship Bracket - Round 1 Side 2

Beedabop x Video Killed The Radio Star coach VS. Captain Crimson x Plum

I call this one "i dont have a subtitle for this one but these are good ships i like em"

[attackcopterblog]

13.7 VK-1 Rifle: Enhanced Functionality and Aesthetics Revealed

VKTR Industries has launched the 13.7 VK-1 rifle in Operational Field Camouflage, featuring upgrades like a Geissele SSA trigger and B5 furniture. This new option, enhanced both visually and functionally, is a result of a collaboration with B5 Systems and comes in pinned and welded variants. VKTR Industries state “VKTR Industries, a manufacturer of premier piston driven AR-15 rifles and…

[bluerasbunny]

Draw a DCA AU you love

anon.. i'm gonna be honest with you;

i don't read a lot of them!! the only ones i can say i love are my own!! i'm sorry i couldn't draw something more for this, best i can do is my own stuff so uh. hhhere's radio host sun?

a bit of elaboration in tags!

[it-was-summer]

Video Killed the Radio Star - Tape #5

A/N: Hey, hey... that's not an earthquake!! It's me... Em. I was feeling a little sad because this series gets so much love despite being on hiatus. I love everyone for being so sweet and letting me take my sweet little time! This chapter... is rather short because I feel like a longer chapter would be rambling, and I want the next one to be GUT-WRENCHING. Let me know what you think!- Love, Em

Link to the: Video Killed the Radio Star Remake Masterlist Link to the Ao3: Video Killed the Radio Star Link to the: Yee olde masterlist

Previous Chapter: Tape #4 > Next Chapter: Coming Soon...

WARNING: Hospital, PTSD from sexual assault, Reader tries to punch a nurse, gauze mittens to the rescue, fear of drug addiction, mention of fatherly abandonment and bullying, guilt, a hospital bed, Spencer reid being... pookie i fear.

Pairing: Season7!Spencer Reid x VKTRSFem!Reader

Tape Contents: Waking up to a bunch of hands on you in the hospital doesn't go over well with you. Spencer delivers on a promise he made to a little girl, and then some.

Word Count: 2,649

March 7, 20XX

You can hear the beeping of the EKG machine before your mother’s voice—a soft, droning sound that maintains a steady tempo. You can count it, remembering something Adeline told you once about the best tempo for CPR– 120 beats per minute, stayin’ alive.  But this sound does not match that of the Bee Gees. The thought makes you smile; your lips twitch before your eyes open. 

Your mother has her hand gripping your limp one, calling your name as she watches you stir awake. When your eyes open, they don’t go straight to her or the EKG machine; they stare blankly at the ceiling. You stay like that for a moment, your fingers twitching against your mother’s palm. 

Your body feels like it’s moving through frames of air, your head rolling down to look at your mother with a rolling dizziness. Giving her a lazy smile, she throws her arms around your upper torso. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Her sobs make you feel guilty at first, your hazy brain not catching up all the way. Everything seems to be broken up in tragic mosaic tiles. 

Heather, pink, pain, blood, brown eyes. 

Your mother’s touch leaves you feeling heavy. When she pulls back from her emotional embrace, she places her hands firmly on your shoulders. You gasp sharply at the sensation, shaking your head quickly, your mouth filling with cotton. You watch her eyebrows knit together in fearful confusion, and one of her hands comes up to stroke the side of your cheek, hoping to soothe your fear. 

The feeling leaves a trail of rageful fire against your cheek, and you can’t stop yourself as you smack her hand away, eyes wild and crazed, as you let out a strangled sound. “No!” Your yell alerts the nurses to rush in as fast as possible. 

Your mother’s hands fly away from you at your yell, stammering softly, “I hugged her, I didn't-–” But the rest of her sentence drowns out as one of the nurse’s hands touches your left forearm, it's a graze of a touch. Her fingers are soft and steady, and it makes you feel sick as you pull your forearm away from her at the speed of light. 

“Don’t touch me!” You cry out, your cheeks flushing, and the sound of your heart pounding in your ears. You can feel the blood rushing in them— hear it as clear as day—the EKG pounds away: Beep, Beep, Beep, Beeps in unsteady notes. 

One of the nurses moves the IV stand out of her way, her fingers wrapping around the edge of the hospital bed, her tender green eyes looking down at you with pity. “Hey, it’s okay.” Her hand is reaching over the bed to fix one of your blankets, taking care to avoid any contact with your body. “You’re safe.” 

But her hand is too close, and you can feel the warmth of an invisible palm on your inner thigh— unwanted and vile. Your fists ball up, panting hard, as you swing at the nurse. Your fist misses her by an inch, and your lips part to scream at her, but you can feel someone’s hands actually on you now. One nurse is grabbing your shoulders, trying to pull you away from her colleague and push you back down on the hospital bed. 

The action makes you downright vicious, your mother screaming for you to calm down as you thrash against the hands on your shoulders. Overlapping voices swarm, but all you can hear is the pounding in your ears and your heaving pants. Another nurse rushes into the room, needle in hand, and stands at the ready as the other three nurses manage to hold your thrashing body down. 

The nurse with the needle is quick to administer what you can only assume is an opioid. It works fast like one, a warm comfort and then a welcoming darkness. 

When you wake up, you can see that your outburst from earlier has gotten you some special treatment. Your hands are padded and wrapped in a gauze-made mitten. You sigh as you flex your fingers weekly against the gauze, feeling the soft, scratchy material against your knuckles as you look around the room. Your mother is outside, head down as she talks with someone on the phone. You can barely hear her hushed voice, but you catch the sound of “She’s never been violent” before you decide it’s best if you don’t hear the rest of her conversation. 

Guilt creeps into your stomach because it’s true. You weren’t violent. You made cookies when people were sad and talked with your friends about how you thought every fight could be avoided with a good sit-down. The idea of peaceful talk seems naive now; no good talk could stop the seething rage from boiling in your blood.  

Were you still kind? Were you ever kind or just painfully sheltered? When did your sweetness leave you? Would it be a temporary leave or one in perpetuity? 

Did all of your goodness bleed out of your lip or the ‘x’ on your chest? Or was it seeping out of the broken bones of your ankle? You feel like crying at the onslaught of questions—questions of goodness, sweetness, blood, death, and rage. Two stood out above the rest: when will this be over? Is this just the beginning?

The thought of the rest of what made you… you, being stripped away until you were bare, made you start to cry. A soft sob left you as you numbly stare at flowers in vases and cards of well-wishes on the hospital’s windowsill. Your mother must have heard your sobs because she was standing by the side of your bed with heartbreak in her eyes.

You turned your head toward her, your mitted hands reaching toward her—toward comfort. But when you lift your hands, she flinches. You can see the shock on her face as her shoulders slowly relax. Her fingers nervously reach out for you, and she tentatively wraps her arms around you. She held you like you were precious china, like she was scared of scratching the surface of your skin. 

Your tears slow to a stop as you feel her arms around your upper torso, a numb feeling consuming your yearning heart. Some comfort this is. The voice in your head leaves you with a bitter taste on your tongue, and saliva comes to the surface of your tongue as you try to swallow away the feeling. She smiles as she pulls away, her hands smoothing your hair carefully. “I’ll go get you something to eat?” she offers with a grin. 

You nod, a stray tear falling down your cheek. Before she leaves, she cleans your face of tears with a Kleenex, and then she helps you find something on the menu, and she’s gone. 

The beeping from the EKG no longer brings you comfort, but the room's silence would be deafening without it, so for that, you’re grateful. You eye your ankles under the blankets, one clearly in a cast. You sigh, imagining how long that will take to heal. 

Wanting to see something happier, your eyes flit over to the window sill again. You see assortments of flowers scattered on the windowsill, and you hate that the sight doesn’t bring the joy that flowers usually do. Your eyes stray, staring down a red rose. You sniffle softly, forcing yourself to look away. 

Looking down at your hands, you wonder how to get out of these gauze mittens. You lick your lips carefully, your tongue tracing the edges of a tiny bandage on your lip. You bring one of your hands up to your lips, your teeth ready to try and tear the gauze off your hands. Just before you can attempt your —ultimately foolish— plan, a gentle knock on the doorframe spooks you. 

Turning your head, you see… Spencer Reid? You blink at him, then again, making sure you aren’t hallucinating. Why is he here? 

“JJ, um, is on the fifth floor.” You give him a look, eyebrows knitting together before you realize you must’ve said that question out loud. 

You don’t know what to say to answer, simply staring at him with a shocked expression. You weren’t complaining, of course. He had saved you from… that place. But that didn’t warrant a check-in… did it? You weren’t sure how things like this worked. Honestly, you would have been thrilled never finding out how things like this work, but that option is lost on you now. 

Spencer rocks back and forth on the soles of his feet, eyes shifting through the room slowly before he perks up and reaches for the messenger bag on his hip. Sitting up straighter, you try to peek at its contents before he pulls out a tattered orange stuffed cat— Bee. Seeing the stuffed cat, your hands instinctively reach for it, and your cheeks feel hot with embarrassment as Spencer’s eyes take in your wrapped-up hands. 

Spencer offers you a warm smile, walking toward you to place the plush cat beside you on the bed. Looking down at your hands, he whispers, “Did you hurt your hands?” 

You feel the urge to stuff them under the blankets and tell him it’s nothing, but lying feels pointless. “Ah, no. I,” you lick your lips, a pit forming in your stomach, “I tried to punch a nurse.” Your voice drops into a whisper, avoiding his gaze and looking solely at Bee. 

Spencer’s eyebrows raise, tilting his head to the side to get a better look at your hands. He tries to stop his lips from forming a smile, but he can't help it. He had walked in on you trying to chew through gauze. “I would not recommend chewing through that.” 

“Well,” You scoff, your gaze lifting to meet his with an exasperated scoff. “I don’t have a lot of options.” 

Spencer sucks some air through his teeth, shaking his head. “No, you don’t. We can always ask for help.” 

You blink, eyes leaving his face to look down at your hands. “You think?” You can’t imagine one of the nurses from earlier giving you the okay. But maybe if they reassess your condition, they’ll agree to it. You’re sure all the fight left in your body left the second they administered that sedative, right? 

The thought makes your throat tight, and you can feel your fingers twitching nervously under the gauze. Why did the fight leave you after they administered the sedative? Shouldn’t you’ve come back stronger? Your eyes shift back and forth across the room, your nerves getting the best of you as you ponder the question. Though a soft voice, sweet and sinister, and not yours, answers for you, ‘They gave you what you wanted.’

Spencer can see the tension building in your shoulders, your eyes nervously searching the room, and his chest tightening with emotion. He knows that anxious feeling. He can see it in your eyes. That desperate, silent plea for an answer to a question you haven’t spoken. For once, he finds himself without words, not knowing what to say. 

And while he sometimes struggles to read the room correctly… he can read the lingering question on your mind. It's a question he’s had since the Dilaudid. The same one that came into his mind after his father abandoned him, after being strung up on a flag pole by his classmates, haunting him all his life— What’s wrong with me?

He can hear your heavy breathing as he decides to speak, but there’s that rushing sound again. You listen to the muffled sound of his voice near you as you try to snap yourself out of your self-made spiral. Eventually, some words got through: “Should I get the nurse?” 

Your head spins at how fast your lips say, “No!” The sound of your shaky voice makes him freeze in his tracks. Your sight wavers momentarily, squeezing your eyes shut and opening them slowly to look at his concerned face. You sigh as they focus on him, and all you can see is his warm, honey-colored gaze. His eyes betrayed concern amongst their softness, compassion mixing with a soft look of apprehension. “No,” You repeat, softer, hating the idea of scaring him further. “Can you just...” There’s a pause, your eyes narrowing slightly. “Wait?”

Spencer slowly nods, stuffing his hands awkwardly into his pockets as quiet beeping fills the room. He wants to ask how you’re feeling, but he has a feeling he already knows. He’s experienced that look in your eyes, the dim light begging to grow brighter, how your bottom lip quivered before you told him not to get the nurse. He knows offering a comforting touch is the wrong move, and he’s not keen on that idea anyway.

“I’m sorry.” Your voice hits him like a train. Its ragged tone oozes self-hate. Upon hearing it, he pushes out a breath, his awkwardness fading into sympathy.  

“I wasn’t upset about anything.” He replies in a calm tone, “I’m the one who showed up here with no warning.” His eyes flick over to Bee by your side. “I was just following the orders of a little girl.” 

You glance over at Bee again before nodding. “Very dutiful of you.” 

“It’s what I’m known for.” 

“Not the gun and badge?” 

Spencer sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth, “My skills with guns are lacking, and as for the badge, it only gets me so far.” He watches as a slow grin breaks out on your face, and your eyes drift over to his for a moment. He feels positively elated. Spencer decides that now is a good time for you to be free of those mittens on your hands. 

The nurses quickly reassess your condition as you throw soft and squeaking apologies their way. They quickly brush it under the table, repeating reassuring comments as they snip away at the gauze wrapped around your hands. 

You’re stretching out your fingers when Spencer’s fingers tentatively wrap around the strap of his bag. “Well, I suppose I should be going.” 

Your eyes widen at that, and you try to hide the quiet feeling of disappointment with a soft smile. “Oh.” 

Spencer can see how your eyes cast down at your hands and how your posture slumps. His fingers slip into his bag before he has time to think about it, rummaging around for a business card. He fidgets with the card for a moment, his long fingers tracing the edge of the cardstock. He hasn’t given anyone his card in a while, fearing it would backfire on him. 

But as he looks at your downcast expression, his heart aches, and he’s striding forward with his hand outstretched toward you. “If you ever need to talk.” Your eyebrows rise, and your fingers slowly take the card with a nervous expression.

“Thank you,” You mutter, studying the card in your fingers a moment longer. 

Spencer nods, stammering a little before he huffs out a quiet, “Of course.” Then he points toward the hallway, backing away from the bed. “I’ll see you.” he doesn’t know why he feels so tense, but he does. Your softening gaze made his heart beat a little faster than usual. You raise a hand, waving goodbye. “See you.” Once he’s gone, you find yourself gazing down at the card in your hands. Your thumb traces his name on the card, smiling at the sight. You know you’ll probably never call, but the offer is sweet. It reminds you that not everyone is afraid of you, and the thought makes you feel a little lighter as you place the card on the hospital bed tray. Likely to be lost among get-well-soons and flowers as you close your eyes with a lighter heart, waiting for your mother again.

TAG LIST: @babyspiderling @cocobean16 @kodzukenie333 @mmmunson @dollykisses4reid @otterluver05 @reader-bookling123 @love4lando 

[shock-the-monkey-82]

#6499 – RTT : Guns & Gear, VKTR Industries Complete DI BCG & Accessories, link here: YouTube

[thiscantbetheend]

Welcome to The Selfshipping Blog Ever. Vintage WHO?.

What's this blog for, you ask? Well...I don't know anymore, really! As of February 15th, I'm just rebooting it for general usage. To yap about my F/Os, to see if anybody wants to make hot takes (not rude ones), to make stuff and to meet people. Just know I'm gonna try to make this blog more active again.

Note: I am STILL LEARNING. Do correct me if I'm wrong about anything!

Talking about the rules. Here they all are.

No NSFW. The person that runs this blog is a minor.

DO NOT INTERACT IF YOU ARE COM/PRO/DARKSHIP. It makes me uncomfortable due to past experiences.

Don't attack on people for their F/Os. Take your drama somewhere else.

No sunflowers.

Have fun!

I have three F/Os. Who are they, you ask? Well, they are:

VideoStar (VKTRS Just Dance 3 Coach)

Tsukasa Tenma (Project SEKAI: Colourful Stage!)

Inhaus (Anna-Logue!) (Main F/O, tag is Untitled Debugging Software)

I am comfortable with sharing both, a bit iffy with Tsukasa but no DNI to whoever has him :] (I'm also really non-sharing with Inhaus. Unless I know you from MockNET, assume I'm probably gonna just avoid your blog.)

Not affiliated with any blogs, but I take lots of inspo from them! I just thought it'd be neat to run my own show :]

I have removed my main blog for my own safety, namely due to people who want my head gone in this community. You all can call me Cas though.

[the-purpursparv]

Silly Game Time: Firstly, think of a quote you like. It could be because you find it profound, inspiring, or just plain funny. It could be a famous quote by a notable person, or something that a personal aquaintance said to you alone, or a line from a story of any kind.

Secondly, share it with us ... WITHOUT using any vowels!

(For Example: "s nw tht th crcmstnc f n's brth s rrlvnt. t s wht y d wth th gft f lf tht dtrmns wh y re." - Mwtw)

"Y'v lwys wntd t cr wht y thght wr wknsss. Yr lg, yr dss - bt y wr nvr brkn, Vktr. Thr s bty n mprfctns. Thy md y wh y r, n nsprbl pc f vrythng dmrd bt y" -Jyc Tls

Is it a cringe choice? Absolutely. However that quote means so so much to me for reasons beyond the fannish, so it was my first thought when you mentioned a quote I like.

[chongoblog]

Odd question but it’s been bugging me: have you ever done a mashup of Monkey Watch with Video Killed the Radio Star? I feel like you have but I can’t find it for the life of me

What’s funny is that that DOES feel like something I’d make and I feel like it would fit perfectly, but to my knowledge I have not made it. I know I mashed up VKTRS with a kirby song tho

[bluerasbunny]

chat would you still read video killed the radio star (DCA radio host AU) if i rewrote it without the x reader?

explanation on the current state of VKTRS and why i'm considering this change below! dont vote bunny choice pleas that's just so i can see the poll results

so! chapter 3 has taken a ridiculously long time, and i'm going to be completely honest;

it's because i am not enjoying writing an x reader. i don't like writing from a you/yours perspective, i don't enjoy writing a faceless character and that's impacting my drafting for the story, because i'm just... not enjoying it!! i'm not a selfshipper (aromantic with a complete disinterest in romance) and im not a fan of reading x readers, which is making it even harder for me, because i am producing something i myself wouldn't read

and in a sense that's my own fault, because i thought i had to do an x reader to succeed. but i don't want to produce a poorly done end product that i'm not satisfied with in the name of attention and success. i want to create something that has passion in the heart of it and something that i'm proud of!!

i don't want my fic to be a chore. i want it to be a passion project that you can tell i'm excited for. i don't have my heart in the first two chapters of vktrs and i think you can tell, and i don't want that! i don't want that to be all you see of my writing! moral of the story is; new creators for the DCA fandom, please don't think you have to do an x reader to succeed. create the fiction you want to see, not what you think other people want to see. do not pull a bunny!

so, with that said, what's my plan?

i'm gonna be honest! i don't know, at least not yet! maybe i'll remove the x reader and have it be sun x moon! maybe i'll replace the x reader with an OC, though you can certainly still put yourself in their position! the story remains reasonably the same; a 30 chapter horror/mystery/romance fic about 80s robot radio hosts! perhaps with more of a horror flare, perhaps with more dysfunctional toxic yaoi (because it's a bunny fic those are my two skills), but it will follow a very similar plot!! just it will not be an x reader and it will not be written from a you/yours perspective, because that's just not me!! that's not what i want to write or what i want to read!!

of course, this banks on the outcome of the poll!! but if it ends in a no, then at least you guys know about the current state of the radio host AU and why it's been so slow going!! apologies for the ramble, this has been on my chest for quite a long time

i just hope the end result will be something both you and i will love!! no matter what, i promised VKTRS will be finished, and i intend to live up to that no matter how long it will take. (i just need to beat my procrastination over the head with a bat to actually get things done either way...)

[ratingjustdanceships]

Beedabop x VKTRS? asking for a friend

6/10

meh. I don’t usually ship robots but it seems cool

[it-was-summer]

Video Killed the Radio Star- Tape #2 (Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader)

A/N: THIS CHAPTER FOCUSES MAINLY ON THE FIRST ENCOUNTERS WITH YOUR KIDNAPPER. I didn't put any warning before the scene starts, but the entire chapter is essentially that. So please keep that in mind. I changed a lot of this from the original version. I have grown okay? I saw inconsistency in my writing and I am trying to fix it. Thank you so much for everyone's kudos, notes, comments, reblogs, bookmarks, EVERYTHING! Please let me know what you think and enjoy.

Video Killed the Radio Star Remake Masterlist

Link to the Ao3: Video Killed the Radio Star

Previous Chapter: Tape #1 > Next Chapter: Tape #3

WARNING: Kidnapping, morphine use, abuse, talks of death, and more. Remember you are not alone if you struggle with this content.

Tape Contents: The team starts to comb through your apartment. Meanwhile, you spend your time in a less fiery version of hell.

Word Count: 3,721

March 2, 20XX 

After recording the video, you were damn near catatonic. Your eyes were having a hard time pulling away from the corner of your living room, staring at the fading white paint as it met the trim. You tried to turn on the television for some sort of distraction, but every time you heard a sound a little too close for comfort, you would pause the screen and comb through your apartment like a mad woman. You had locked the windows, the door, hell, you even considered shoving a chair under the knob of the front door. 

You didn’t, though. Sitting in a silently lit room with your legs to your chest. You were trying to remember to breathe in the correct order: in, then out, out, then in. Every so often, your breathing would hitch, and you would start over again. You tried to find something to keep you grounded in the moment, a texture to rub your hands over, but the dread kept building. 

It kept building until it was two in the morning, and you couldn’t handle it anymore. 

You were turning off lights slowly, fingers lingering on the switches before you turned them off, dashing into your apartment’s bedroom and shutting the door behind you. Your body was moving as if it thought the darkness was going to kidnap you. Maybe it would, maybe that fate would be better than what the depths of your mind were producing as you found a light to plug into the wall. The old wall plug-in emitted just enough light in the room that you let yourself relax in the dark of your bedroom. 

When you called your mother earlier, she reassured you that the police were there for you, patrolling the neighborhood every weekend. You tried to tell her that their cars were dwindling, and now it seemed like only one was bothering to make the rounds, but she didn’t listen. One was enough for her, so why couldn’t it be enough for you? 

It was wrong to be angry with her, wrong to be angry with the police, wrong to be angry with yourself. The worst part was being angry with Adeline, the way she was trying so hard to be supportive despite her daughter dying of cancer. The guilt felt like a prod: scorching, agonizing, pushing its way into your chest, where it made its home near your heart. You didn’t want to be angry, not with her, not with anyone, but the feeling of isolation had you crying tears of frustration in your bed.

Maybe they were all right, maybe you were just being crazy. You would go into work tomorrow exhausted and weary, but alive. Everything would be fine. You told yourself this mantra over and over again as your tears slowed, your eyelids became heavy, and your breathing got deeper. Everything would be fine.

Dawn crept into your bedroom window. The sun had yet to rise, its glow just dim on the horizon. You couldn’t have been asleep for longer than two hours or so when you heard soft breathing. Your eyes were heavy and slow to open as you listened to the sound. 

Liquid bubbling with a soft ‘ glug’ sound had you stirring a little, eyes fighting you as you tried to open them and focus on the sound. As your body stirred, a hard hand grabbed your mouth, pressing down on your lips as your eyes snapped awake. The last thing you remembered was a gloved hand shoving a handkerchief to your face and the smell of ether before your world went dark. 

March 5, 20XX

Garcia was smiling. It didn’t take long for the field techs to bring back your computer adorned with pink and green sticky notes with passwords, notes, and to-do lists. She always liked a woman who had a plan and stuck to it. “This girl just made my job easier,” she chuckled softly as she logged into your computer with ease. “Not that it was ever hard, but it was sweet of her to help me out.” 

The whole thing seemed clear of any suspicious emails, apps, or spying devices. She frowned as she moved to your phone logs that she received earlier that day; the most recent call was from an unknown number. The voicemail that followed sent chills down her spine, the sound of sobs before the line went dead. She shared with the team her favorite member, actually, Derek, who was listening to her intensely over the phone while the rest of the team combed through your apartment. 

To say they felt a little shocked was an understatement. You were more prepared than you had let on. Each ‘gift’ was labeled and in baggies in the drawers of your desk. Emily was the first to see a folder in a nook of the desk; as she opened it, she was greeted with a picture of… herself. She let out a huff of a laugh as she started to pull out photos. Spencer, David, Derek, JJ, and Aaron. “She’s got everyone but Penelope.” She said, waving Spencer and Aaron over with a slight flick of her wrist. 

Spencer tilted his head at the blurry photo of himself on the desk, an amused look in his eyes as he read out loud, “‘Give this man a pair of glasses, now!’” He looked over at Hotch and spoke in a curious tone, “Do I really have the kind of face that tells everyone I need glasses?” 

Aaron looked up from his photo and gave Spencer a slight grin. "Do you want me to lie?” he asked, much to Spencer’s dismay. 

Emily spoke up, “At least yours says that she’s asking for my number on mine.” She turned the photo of herself over to them and pointed at the writing. She pointed to Hotch’s photo and grinned, “‘Give us a smile, baby’ is kind of funny, come on.” 

Hotch's frown deepened as he looked at the writing, “She was trying to have a sense of humor,” 

“A sense of humor in stressful situations could indicate that she approaches them in a light-hearted way, she’s optimistic. The type to never give up.” Reid spoke softly beside her. 

“It could also mean that she’s the kind of person who draws people in with her personality,” Prentiss suggested softly against Reid’s anecdote, “She’s easy to love.” 

She let her words sink into the air around them like a cloud, watching the gears turn in the minds of the two men near her. Her gears also started up as she set the picture back on the desk, leaning against the wood gently when her eye caught a glimpse of color on the floor. 

She maneuvered away from the desk and towards your nightstand, crouching down to the floor as she picked up a small beaded keychain off the floor. She smiled softly as she turned a beaded keychain over in her gloved hands, reading the words aloud, “‘or die.’” 

“What, like ride or die?” Hotch called over the question from the desk in the corner of your room. 

“The term ride or die was originally used as slang among bikers, but in recent years, it has been used in hip-hop culture and music,” Spencer said as he stared at the colorful beaded keychain in Emily’s hand. 

“Since when did you start listening to hip-hop music?” She asked with a laugh. 

Spencer smiled a little and shook his head, “I don’t,” 

“Then where did you hear the phrase ‘ride or die’?” 

“Derek has a ride or die,” 

“Who?” Hotch’s voice joined in curiously as his eyes flicked over towards the bedroom doorway, where Derek was standing, still on the phone with Garcia. 

Nonetheless, he was still listening in on their conversation as he pulled his head away from the phone a little and looked over his shoulder. “Garcia, obviously.” He said simply before bringing the phone back up to his ear. “Nothing, baby girl. We were just talking about you.” 

March 3, 2024

You assumed it was the next day, or at least the day you wanted it to be. Not that you wished for this day, but it being the next day meant you were still alive. Your eyes were slow to open as your fingers twitched, grazing against something suspiciously softer than your duvet. The question was alive where? 

Your eyes were catching glimpses of light, pink light. As you let your eyes focus a little more, you realize the whole room was pink, or the lighting made it seem that way. 

Your body felt… hot, like heat was spreading through your veins, making your head dizzy. You felt good. Then, it plateaued. 

Your body, sluggish as it was, moved slowly. You were trying to sit up but found your upper body strength failing to cooperate. Your elbows failed to provide much support, and you fell back on the soft duvet with a soft ‘oof.’  

Eventually, you managed to scoot your body back till your head hit a headboard… that, from this angle, you could see it was in the shape of a vibrant pink heart. Soon, your back was resting against the headboard. You went to move your leg to help achieve a more comfortable position when a sudden sharp pain cut through the heat in your veins. 

Your eyes traveled down your leg, grateful to see pajama pants covering your skin until you reached your bare foot. Your ankle was a horrible black and blue color. The bones looked swollen and deformed against the skin. You felt sick. 

Your body was moving fast to lean off the side of the bed as you felt your chest squeeze, your mouth opening to vomit off the side of the bed. As your broken ankle lay with you on the bed, your head hung slightly off the edge. You turned your head to see an IV stand next to the bed. When you followed the drip tube, you felt sick once more, seeing how it was professionally attached to the back of your hand. 

A whimper could be heard in the empty pink room as you wiped your lips clean with your non-IV hand and again sat up against the headboard. And you waited. Time seemed to be still in this place, moving at a sluggish pace that made your body twitch and buzz with anxiety.

There was no sunlight, just a hue of pink. A pink dresser, heart decor on the walls, plush heart-shaped pillows by your sides, and chains around your good ankle linked you to the heart-shaped bed, along with some other decor you didn’t care to look at for too long. It looked like a room straight out of a fever dream. You were still trying to determine if it was just that, a fever dream.

You swallowed thick spit roughly as your eyes stayed glued to the heavily locked door. You kept counting the locks, four. Your head tilted to the side as you tried to imagine your kidnapper coming in, how many clicks you would hear, the turning of locks, or the jingle of how many keys. How many keys would it take for you to get out of here? 

Unfortunately, you would know the answer soon as the sound of keys jingling hit your ears. One. You didn’t know if you should start screaming. Would they be angry with you if you started to scream? 

Two. Your breathing was getting faster, coming in short, shaky bursts. Your eyes looked down at your chained ankle and then toward your broken one. Would you even be able to move? The morphine was making it hard anyway. What would it be like to walk or run with the full pain of a broken ankle coursing through you? How would you even get unchained from the bed?

Three. You were trying to remember everything you had read about true crime, but none of it seemed helpful now. Did you beg for your life? Should you tell them about your family? Would they care about any of it? Were they going to kill you or scar you in ways you could never imagine? You knew that there were fates worse than death. At least dying carried some dignity. 

Four. You tried to steady your breathing and convince yourself that you still stood a chance of getting out of here alive. You scooted your body against the headboard as much as possible, trying to get the greatest amount of distance from the door you could, given the circumstances. 

The door was creaking open with a gentle turn of the knob. A flash of white light filled the room before it was ripped away from your line of sight, and the door was shut again. The person –a woman– was holding a small tray in her hands. You were blinking rapidly as you stared at the tray, a pain in your stomach making you realize how hungry you were. 

Slowly, your eyes tore away from the tray and up to her face—a very familiar face, but one you could quite place. Pretty blonde hair, curls framing her face, her full lips drawn into a pleased smile. When your eyes met her pale blue ones, you could see nothing but… empathy. No, it wasn’t that. It seemed to be adoration. She was wearing a pair of scrubs, fun scrubs, little rainbows, and animals sprawling across the material as she walked over to you. 

Maybe she was an accomplice, a wife, a girlfriend, or a sister who got caught up in this. The thought made the muscles straining in your back relax a little as she set the tray down on a nearby side table. Your eyes never left her as she moved gracefully through the room. 

“Oh, sweetie,” Her voice was saccharine, “Did the morphine make you sick?” She asked with a light tilt of her head, turning on her heel toward the dresser to pull out a small towel. “That’s okay, it's a common side effect.”  

You gave a numb nod as you watched her get down to the floor and clean up the vomit without complaint. “I didn’t mean to,” Your voice was hoarse and weak, sounding slightly childish as you spoke out the weak excuse. 

She stood up, walked the towel to the hamper, and tossed the pink rag in with a little laugh: “No one ever means to, baby.” She sounded familiar, too. Your eyes traced over her fit frame, which you could barely make out from under her scrubs. “Let’s get you eating,” She said as she let out a soft hum of relaxation, sitting in a nearby plush chair. 

As she buttered some bread, you eyed the rest of the food on the tray: soup in a plastic bowl, water in a plastic bottle, and a plastic cup for the butter. The silverware was the only thing on the tray that didn’t seem to be plastic. 

You glanced away from the food and back to the familiar woman. “If someone is making you do this, a boyfriend or husband or something, you don’t have to do this. Yo-You and I, we could plan a way to fight back,” you offered, your voice soft and quick. Hope was creeping into you as she listened to you speak, the butterknife scraping gently against the bread in her hands. 

“Well, for starters,” she set down the butterknife and bread, crossing her legs over each other. “My husband doesn’t know a thing about you. As for brothers or boyfriends, I’m afraid you're out of luck there, too. There’s only me, Catherine.” 

You felt the hope draining out of you, and she must’ve seen it in how your shoulders tensed and breathing quickened, “Oh, I knew you were going to have a hard time remembering me, but I didn’t think it would be that hard.” Then it all clicked. 

She grew up well, Heather did. Back in college, she was shy and slightly intense, a shell compared to the woman sitting beside you. She started as a botany major and then suddenly changed universities, her major, and you never saw her again. You could dimly remember seeing her in the dining hall that first month of college, and you were overzealous. Sometimes, to make friends, if you saw someone lost and looking for a table, you’d offer them an empty seat at your table. Heather was one of those cases. Your act of optimistic kindness seemed to haunt you as you stared at her. 

“Heather Alexander,” 

She beamed and clapped her hands together excitedly, “You remembered! I knew you would. I’d expect nothing less from you, my Catherine.” She sighed happily, reaching over for the spoon and bowl of soup. 

“My name isn’t Catherine, you know that.” Your voice had a certain sternness now, hardening as you remembered inviting this monster into your life all those years ago. 

Heather scoffed a little and rolled her eyes, “Duh,” she said as she spooned some of the tomato soup and held it up to your lips, “Open.” 

As you stared at the spoon, you didn’t feel hungry anymore, but your lips moved against your will. You needed your strength. Your lips closed around the spoon gently as she fed you the soup. The steps repeated themselves slowly, your eyes staring her down. 

“I didn’t mean to get so physical with our little game, but I just,” She laughed a sweet sound, the dull pain thumping against your ankle as you heard the sound. “I couldn’t help myself, I guess. I hate playing cat and mouse. I was a little impatient.” She set down the empty bowl and spoon with a smile. “Come on, don’t be angry with me.” 

“You can still let me go. It’s only my ankle. You can take care of me at the hospital. That’s where you work, right? We can tell everyone that you found me in an alleyway or something. I won’t tell anyone.” 

“Catherine, do you think I’m stupid?” she asked with a frown, venom in her voice, as she reached for the bottled water. “I know that the second the police get you in a room alone, without me, you’ll tell them everything.” 

“My name isn’t Catherine,” 

“I mean, come on! I work in pediatrics, for Christ's sake! Do you think trauma will let me stay to take care of you? Use your head, Catherine! No, they won’t.”

“My name is not Catherine,” 

Her eyes quickly met yours, the softness they once had now gone as she swallowed hard, “That must be it, then. You think that I’m that fucking stupid, hm? You think I went to fucking, nursing school just for some librarian to call me stupid?”  

“I didn’t say that, Heather. I’m just saying there’s a way out of this before it gets worse. The worst that can happen is-” 

“The worst that can happen, Catherine, is I lose my license. I get arrested. I never see you again. My shit husband could,” She cut herself off and let out a frustrated sound, throwing the bottle of water at you, the bottle hitting your side harshly. 

“Name’s not Catherine,” You replied once more as your hands grabbed at the water, tucking it behind your back, trying to hide it from Heather as her face buried in her hands. 

“Shut the fuck up about the name thing! You don’t fucking get it do you?” She screamed into her hands before she pulled her head away from them and stood up from her chair. She grabbed the plastic bowl and threw the dirty dish at your head. 

You almost felt like deliriously laughing as the plastic hit your head with a soft ‘thud,’ but you didn’t. Your face managed to stay straight as you looked up at her. “You’re who I say you are. You got my gifts, the novels. You’re my Catherine, my Emma, my Jane. Get that through your,” she picked up the butterknife and threw it toward your chest. “Stupid,” Then the tray was lifted in her hands, and your body braced for the impact, but it never came. 

You squeezed your eyes together as you waited for the tray to hit you. Slowly, you opened one eye to look up at her, staring down at you with the tray still above her head. Her hands slowly dropped down as she held onto the tray. A slow smile came back to her face now: “Catherine, you know I love you.” 

“You have a funny way of showing it, Heather.” 

Her smile twitched a little at that, and she scoffed softly before walking closer to you. Her hands were quick to grab the butterknife in your lap. She jammed the silverware into your sternum, a gasp leaving you as she did so. 

“You’ve got a big mouth on you, Emma.” Her face was inches from yours as she jammed the handle of the butterknife deeper into your chest, your own hands reaching up to try and pull her off. 

She was breathing heavily, your breath hitching as fear flooded your senses as she leaned in closer toward your face. The look in her eyes told you everything you needed to know. If it's up to her, which it currently was, you weren’t getting out. Her lips were close to your quivering ones as her force lightened softly, “Think about this next time you decide to talk back, Emma.” Her lips brushed yours slightly as she spoke, you nodded quickly. 

Then she pulled away and gathered her utensils before she gave you another sweet smile, “See you tomorrow, my love.” She said in an airy tone as she reached over to the morphine drip and upped the intake with a quick flick of her wrist. The sound of keys jingling against each other filled your ears as she did so. The door opened quickly, and she walked out of the room, locks clicking swiftly. 

And just like that, you were alone again. You felt your bottom lip shake softly before tears started to fall from your eyes, your hands reaching behind your back as you cried. When your hands found the water bottle, you drank it slowly, tears falling down your face, and a dull and sharp pain in your chest slowly fading.

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