𝔽𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥 𝔽𝕒𝕥𝕖.

... Newark? That's not any of the COI stations—he should know, he's spent time in a cell on all of them at this point.

Well. All the ones that are left.

And this place is too big to be a ship, unless they were hiding a fucking generation ship somewhere.

"Where did I-" He breaks off in an incredulous, bitter laugh. His hand drops from the knife, instead shoving bloodsoaked hair back from his face as a near-manic grin spreads across it. "The fucking ocean. On AT-5. Where you sent me to die."

I want to help you.

What a fucking joke.

The brandished knife drops to the ground, and the expression that now etches itself across the blood-soaked face staring back at him is somehow infinitely more alarming.

"I'm not in the Consolidation. I don't know what that is." He hates being talked to like he's an idiot, but it's difficult to take particular offense in this bizarre scenario. And there's that mention of on AT-5, which means nothing to John. If there's an ocean, does that mean AT-5 is a boat? Is this stranger in the midst of a delusion? That feels feasible, although it doesn't explain the blood. Unless —

"If I'm not even sure who you are, then I couldn't have sent you anywhere to die. And I think, maybe, we're not where you believe we are."

His own surprise over the other man's lack of musical experience didn't last long, either. So, it was a mix of innate rhythm sense and practice after all! What lingered was a quiet hint of melancholy, to know that John loved music yet hadn't been given the chance to learn it. Would it be overreaching to offer tutelage? That might depend on what sort of instrument the man wanted to play, of course, and his experience wasn't yet as far-reaching nor in-depth as Apollo's - but the idea still had appeal.

A corner of John's mouth lifted a little higher once more while he watched as Orpheus seemed to study him in some way. Whatever the other man had to say, he rather liked finding himself the focus of that dark gaze. As a reply was finally given, his own hazel eyes trailed across Orpheus' face, alight with quiet curiosity for both the answer and its speaker.

A cello. John had always enjoyed the sound of that particular string instrument, and the scope of deep emotion it was capable of conjuring. Yet he couldn't help but wonder, with the manner in which Orpheus looked at him during the ensuing description of it — was this only about the instrument?

As they entered, the heat of his breath furled clouds in the still air, while the extra warmth still lingering in booted feet melted a trail of footsteps through that sheen of ice on the floor. This much ice in just the kitchen, before they'd even found the guy responsible? The least Simon Anders could do, after this was over, would be covering the water damage bills.

Zahir noticed the thicker ice spreading from under one door, at almost the same time Myers did. He didn't expect the other to make a beeline for it, without even mentioning any more of a plan. More surprising was the ask for his name, something that wasn't his hero alias. Easy enough; it was the why that baffled him.

He masked his confusion with another scoff, though he did at least match Myers' volume. "You ask every hero for their name?" Closing distance to pause beside the agent, one hand resting on his own hip, Zahir lifted his other to show how the freezing air shimmered around it, a slight amber glow evident from both sides of his palm - then rested it on Myers' upper back. Just enough of his power to keep the man warm. "It's Chad. ...And don't run ahead like that. If he has some fucking freakout or something, fire stops it better than bullets."

As Flambae approached the door, melting the ice on the handle before pushing it open, John metered his steps so that they remained side-by-side. The scene awaiting them within was reminiscent of the kitchen and hallway: ice spiderwebbed across the windows while a sheet of it covered the floor. It was freezing, and he was grateful for the warmth of Flambae's hand seeping through his coat; even though it was only done for the sake of the whole Fed with frostbite thing, he still appreciated it. The room was furnished as an office of sorts, and on a small couch situated against the opposite wall lay a woman who appeared to be unconscious, her skin much too pale, while her brother hovered nearby. Instantly, their entrance sent Simon whipping around to face them. "Who the fuck are you?" Although Simon didn't seem menacing at a glance ( young, tall but thin, with glasses askew and wide eyes ), the wind outside fairly howled in unison with the inquiry hurled at them.

Holding his hands up, John said, "My name's John, and this is Chad. We want to help, if you'll let us." If they humanized themselves first, there was a better chance of lowering Simon's guard more quickly. Yes, Flambae was flashy and attractive in a manner that probably brought reassurance in other scenarios, yet at the moment? It might come across as threatening should they burst in as Agent Myers and Flambae. John and Chad didn't sound like a facade for two people who came here expecting a fight. They sounded real.

"Yeah, right." Simon was angry, but there was fear there, too. "You want to arrest me, don't you? Or maybe you're just gonna try to kill me." Okay, so it was like that. With one palm still up, John pulled out his firearm ( careful not to hold it in any way that might suggest he was about to use it ). "We don't want to hurt you." Crouching down to place the gun on the floor, he tipped his chin in the direction of the couch. "That's your sister, right? What's her name?" He already knew the answer, though he nodded his head while Simon, gaze narrowing said, "Evie. Her name's Evie." As he stood up, he kicked the weapon behind him and back into the hallway. "Did she move to Los Angeles 'cause the weather's better? If you like all the sun and heat, anyway. But I mean, we both know it's more fun here than in Newark." Now Simon was staring at him like he was crazy. "Why didn't you move here, too?" C'mon, talk to me. "Yeah," Simon spoke slowly, suspicion still evident but belligerence replaced by uncertainty. "Evie always says Newark is dreary. And her boyfriend's here. But I didn't want to leave my teaching job in New Jersey."

Yes, there we go! "You're a teacher? That's awesome." It would be better if they could keep the conversation going, but this wasn't an ' ideal ' hostage negotiation; Evie Anders probably had hypothermia, and they didn't have time to build a better bridge than what they currently had. As Simon nodded, John continued, "Teachers do a lot to help other people. But you came here so she could help you, didn't you?" Simon looked stricken before saying, "When I got here, she said that we should call someone. I'd thought she was gonna protect me, you know? And we started arguing, and I couldn't control this — all of this!" Simon gestured wildly. "I followed her in here, and she was on the phone with the fucking cops! The power went out and she was trying to get away from me like she didn't even know me, like I'm a monster!"

"I know you didn't mean to hurt your sister. I can tell you love her." Personal reservations were of no consequence right now; Simon needed someone to understand, and that was what John would do. "With Chad's powers, he can try to help her." Suddenly, Simon was on edge again; the man gripped Evie's arm, and she started to shiver. "Hey, you can show her that you're still you by letting Chad help her. Will any of this matter if she's dead?"

"I've had very good teachers." Geo said with a soft chuckle before stealing another small kiss. He had programming for situations like this, but they hadn't necessarily given him every possible scenario. It also helped that given all his experience with John, he figured he might have gone for something like this.

He slowly brought John back up, knowing that a position like that shouldn't be held for too long with a human that had joints and muscles. He kept one arm round his waist, holding him close, guiding him into a soft way with the music he was still playing, going for one of the softer and far more romantic Sinatra tunes. He started to lightly trace along John's spine with his other hand.

However, the sensation of Geo's fingertips trailing along John's spine was rather distracting in the nicest way. It sent another pleasurable shudder through him, then another. Of course, he was cognizant of the fact that Geo could tell without him saying a word, which wasn't particularly fair, in his opinion!

In the midst of it, the words murmured against his lips captured all of John's attention. His heart was fairly twisting in his chest, as if it felt so much that it wasn't sure what to do with it all. "I don't think anyone's ever said that to me." His reply was just as soft, before he tilted his head to whisper in Geo's ear. "I know you will."

Warlock's expression did lighten a bit further with mild surprise when John asked him to specify. He supposed 'on' could've sounded vague, true, especially after finding out where the culprit's rot was. "Oh! No, don't worry, this time it should just be paper in his pocket. Well, it might be on his cellular phone, but nothing so permanent as carvings or burnings."

A sharper glance toward the man they'd snared - who had mostly stopped struggling, instead focused on not breathing too deep so close to what he'd coughed up. Warlock added with a brief curl of his upper lip, "His sort of dabbler has only stolen knowledge. Fools who think they're clever try to control it, bored elites treat it like a game, over and over for centuries. None of them realize what a demon contract takes from you." Half a beat for a steadying inhale, to keep himself together. "Not 'til it's too late."

As if his prior contemplation had somehow summoned its return, Warlock's guise again shifted to disgust. Understandable though such revulsion may be, John felt certain that what drove it was far more personal. This hunch was given further credence when Warlock next spoke; oh, whatever experience his friend might have with any of this had clearly cut deep.

With a short nod, he approached the man again. There was little room for another attempt at a struggle as Vaughn kept the suspect still so that John could search any pockets he found. He pulled a smartphone that appeared brand new from a front pants pocket ( he utilized its facial recognition feature to gain access and switch off the passcode, just in case ), a wallet with an ID that would finally give them a name, and a torn piece of paper in a back pocket. Walking back to Warlock, he unfolded it completely before holding it up for them to examine. Indeed, printed on it were what looked to be directions for destroying the gate.

Still, Hellboy didn't rush. Even though restless desire itched in his palms and thighs, he gave John a long window to catch breaths, to relax, to feel every moment of this. If he weren't so focused on sinking in to the base first, he would've leaned down for a kiss then and there. Hellboy let his watchful, adoring look do the job for now, despite the temptation of John's arms round his neck. His partner asked him not to stop, so he wouldn't, not until John expressed otherwise.

Hellboy almost paused, though, at the other's latter assurances. Not a second...? Not even when he was balking at every touch and needing help with basic crap and freaked out in a way he couldn't fully explain? 'Perfect', even when he'd felt messy and vulnerable in the worst way?

As groin met rear at last, Hellboy let himself answer first with a deep and loving kiss, pouring his gratitude into it. After, he only pulled back far enough to speak in a rumbling whisper. "I dunno what I did to deserve you, but I'd do it a hundred times." A gentler, shorter peck to John's lower lip. "I wanted you too, just like always. Even when it didn't seem like it, I did. I do. And I don't ever wanna make you doubt that."

When they parted, the brush of their mouths amid the whisper resonating from deep in the other man's throat sent a pleasurable shudder through John's body. That question, what Hellboy did to deserve him, was reminiscent of the murmuring about a ' lightning strike ' the first time they kissed on this bed. There was no lightning, no deserving. It was just Hellboy, like it had always been. Nothing could change that, especially not some stupid spell. Maybe its intention had been to diminish ( into a human, like him — he would prefer not to dwell again on the implications of that ), yet it couldn't even touch what it was that made Hellboy a hero to begin with.

Before John could say as much, a brief kiss was pressed to his lips once more. Then came an admittance that prompted a faint furrowing of his brow. Hellboy had wanted him while human?

The memory of it allowed some of John's misplaced mortification to filter through again, even though he logically knew the discomfort had all been a result of Hellboy's ' temporary body ' and not really anything to do with him. ' And I don't ever wanna make you doubt that. ' "I believe you." And he did; whether he understood it or not, he trusted that Hellboy wouldn't utter such a thing were it not true. Nevertheless, this seemed like the worst moment to convey the inquiries currently cataloged in John's mind ( such as: now that you've been ' human, ' d'you think I'm weak? ), with his companion pulling out halfway before thrusting back in.

At least until he hears the muted sounds of footsteps. His ears are clogged, but it still doesn't sound right—doesn't echo like it should on a ship or a station. And there's other unfamiliar noises in the distance, too, ones he can't identify.

And then he hears a voice.

It's a struggle against fatigue that seems to increase gravity far beyond what it should be, but he pushes himself to his knees, baring sharpened teeth in a silent snarl at the approaching figure. He's still unbalanced by the arm severed at his elbow, and it's made much worse by how tired he is, wobbling in place slightly as he reaches across his body to rest his palm on the handle of his knife, but not drawing it yet.

"Th'fuck do you think happened? You're the bastards who sent me down there, take a wild fucking guess." He rasps, spitting yet more blood out of his mouth as he sizes the stranger up. Shorter than him, and leaner—he could probably take them down without too much struggle, but...

Something clicks, like ill-fitting gears grinding against each other. This isn't the tow ship. And only an idiot would have a firearm on a space station.

No, that's wrong. As his gaze takes in the other man's missing forearm ( is it previously amputated or a fresh loss? impossible to tell amidst all the blood ), he also notes two further factors that solidify his assessment: the knife, and that he's given a nonverbal warning.

Vampires rarely brandish blades as their primary source of intimidation. And this guy isn't immediately looking to rip John's throat out. And there's something else, an intrinsic exhaustion that seems to bear down on this person, a weight in the very marrow of their bones.

Although he pauses in his steps, he still doesn't reach for his gun. However, the accusation and question that follow send his brow furrowing. "I don't understand what you mean." Station. Like a fire station? Space station? What? "You're in Newark, New Jersey." John almost tacks on ' unfortunately, ' yet he doesn't think it'll be found particularly amusing at the moment.

"They should," was Jun's simple, soft insistence. He welcomed every nip and marking bite on his thighs with quiet hums past a contented yet heated smile, fingers combing through John's hair again and again. Time melted into long, syrupy drips. Jun's pulse thrummed in his legs, in his cock, in the backs of his ears, wanting but not yet desperate.

An audible gasp of his own escaped, lashes fluttering briefly without falling shut, when John finally took hold of his length. Jun sighed out another moan with a smile, answering those slow strokes with subtly firmer drags of his nails over John's scalp. Toes curling at how the other teased his ruddied tip, Jun reached his free hand down to take light, gentle hold of the man's chin and brush his thumb over that bottom lip streaked with color.

However, the fingers brushing beneath John's chin surprised him, his lips parting when Jun's thumb swiped over the little bit of purple and gold still smudged there. ' You're welcome to. ' Not exactly asking for what he had suggested, but what constituted an invitation in his mind, nevertheless. Another grin colored Jun's features, revealing rows of perfect teeth that wouldn't so much as touch him.

"And I'm sure you're incredible when you squirm." Upon pressing a kiss against the lingering thumb, John took it past his lips as he continued his relentless teasing of Jun's slit. For a moment, he stayed like that — his lips around the other man's finger, his ministrations curious to coax that flushed tip even redder. When he pulled away, it was so that his tongue could take the place of his hand instead, repeatedly dragging over the crown of Jun's cock while his hand wrapped now around the base.

Karl's hold didn't even ebb when the other's grip on his shirt pushed him against the wall. He simply pulled John along, sighing out another quiet pleased groan through his nose. He knew he could break free of the embrace anytime he chose. As if he would, with John's tongue delving deeper.

It seemed way too soon when the other man pulled back. Karl's mouth faintly tingled from all the new sensations, while his eyes slivered halfway open again. Curious as he was about what John was trying to say, he nonetheless welcomed an interrupting kiss and nearly chased after that tug of teeth. "I want it," Karl whispered, low and a little drawling and burningly honest. "Want you." It was his turn for another kiss, though just a teasing, lingering graze of lips. "Come take as much of my breath as you can."

At the promise of a kiss, John's posture tensed eagerly before it turned into a mere brush of the lips. A quiet huff escaped him as he gazed up at Karl curiously through his lashes. ' Come take as much of my breath as you can. ' So, it was like that? A subtle grin stole across his face; he was more than willing to play.

"You're gonna give me all of it," John teased in a whisper, tipping his chin so their mouths met once more. This time, he didn't interrupt himself ( not to say anything, and not with a sense of trepidation over doing too much ), instead allowing each kiss its ardency with abandon. With every stroke of his tongue, press of his lips, and nip of his teeth, he willed them both closer yet it never seemed enough. John's grip curled tighter in Karl's hair, pulling in intermittent tugs that coincided with each new kiss. More, more, more. Maybe he shouldn't, but he couldn't resist — it would just be a little. His right hand slid down starched, white fabric to Karl's waist. Pulling a bit of the button-down shirt from his companion's slacks, John slid his fingers beneath it.

Orpheus let John take the lead again. Falling into tempo with the overheard music made it easier to keep his eyes on the other, rather than on their feet. He found himself sorely tempted to conjure a few instruments of his own, a subtle accompaniment just for them, but refrained in the end. It could draw the kind of attention Orpheus didn't want at the moment, and that John might not want at all.

Instead, he huffed out another flustered, short chuckle; his gaze never left John's face all the while. "Mostly guitar these days, though I started on the lyre. I've some decent knowledge on other instruments too, just not as much." Partly because it made controlling his spectral versions of those instruments easier, but only partly. "What about you? With how well you keep up, you must have some."

John nodded as more than one instrument was mentioned in conjunction with his query. Impressive! His curiosity over whether Orpheus was a musician by trade or for pure enjoyment was equaled by intrigue over the lyre. As far as he was aware, he had never met anyone who boasted proficiency in such a lute; it was a type of lute, wasn't it? Well, it certainly seemed that Orpheus was the person John ought to pose the question to —

"Me?" Although he didn't intend to sound shocked by his companion's assumption, surprise underscored his voice regardless. "No, not at all. Not because I never wanted to learn, I love music." The number of concerts he had managed to attend in merely the first year he lived in Newark was probably a testament to that. "But it was — " John paused for a moment. "It was just never in the cards for me, I guess."

What mattered was that Myers knew, in the here and now, who the hell had made this freak cold front ten times worse.

Gaze lingering instead on the shrouded building while the agent explained, Zahir broke down the most important pieces in his mind. So something called a... something Irish, it sounded almost like 'Kellogg' but he knew a fucking cereal didn't cause this. So an Irish creature off in the mountains had gotten pissed and cursed this Simon Anders guy. Then he wrecked a chunk of Oakland, then decided to make it his sister's problem? Zahir kind of wished it'd been a feuding couple.

Yet Agent Myers seemed to think talking was still on the table. Reluctantly, Zahir had to admit to himself... it was possible. He'd seen it work before when he hadn't expected it to. But the man was talking like the plan was going in alone - he shook his head. "That's where we're going, badge-boy," he insisted, offering a hand while his other lowered for the moment. "Come on. Tenth floor, right?"

So, they would do this together after all! Nevertheless, he couldn't help but balk at the scathing moniker leveled at him: badge-boy, as if he harbored some sort of pride or sense of entitlement in waving around a piece of metal. No — it enabled John to protect people who needed him, to act as a liaison for heroes who weren't human and treated like monsters because of it, in a way he couldn't otherwise. Yet to say so would only serve to act in defense of himself ( which was really the least important thing at the moment ), and to someone who probably harbored legitimate antipathy towards those with such a badge, no less.

Right now, they were both focused on saving who they could, and that appeared to be what mattered to Flambae despite any personal aversions. That said quite a lot.

After his gaze settled on the palm Flambae extended to him, he turned to his fellow agents for moment. "Do what we planned, make sure every resident in the building has evacuated and get out anyone hasn't." Then, facing Flambae once more, John took the other man's hand firmly in his with a nod of his head. Although he thought he was prepared, the sudden pull closer before his feet were literally swept out from under him made his lips part and his eyes go wide. Perhaps he wasn't certain if it was the ' proper ' thing to do as they launched higher and higher into the buffeting maelstrom ( did etiquette even exist for these kinds of situations? ), but he instinctively threw his arms around Flambae's neck, intent to hold on however he could.

And, John's heart jumping into his throat while they rapidly gained altitude — it was amazing. This was exactly how he had dreamed for years that it would be like to fly before that first airplane trip to Russia, when he encountered the disappointing reality that for him, flying would always mean a torturous migraine and wishing it would just end already. Even as Flambae fought the storm, wonder was fairly alight in his veins until the biting cold faded into the background. "Wow." The single syllable escaped John in a murmur just before they landed on the fire escape. He would probably never experience anything like that again, yet at least he would always remember this.

Getting his feet under him once more, he nodded at Flambae's statement ( ' The sooner this shit gets done, the better ' ). What followed reached John as he tested the door which was, luckily, open already. ' And stay close when we're inside. Don't want a Fed getting fucking frostbite on my record. ' Oh, this guy really didn't like him. "Got it." Although it might have helped his case to promise, he knew better than to offer guarantees in a circumstance where there weren't any, even if he would try. Regardless, there was one thing John would say. "I promise that I'll have your back." Then, he twisted the doorknob and crossed the threshold.

Somehow, the chill was quieter and harsher inside. Everything within the apartment kitchen they had stepped into was covered in frost. His eyes were so preoccupied taking in the crystallized sheen that it was only the crunch under his shoes that brought his attention down to the thin layer of ice on the floor. It spread in a sheet across the hardwood to two closed doors on either side of the apartment. Which one were Simon and the sister in? Tilting his head, John's gaze darted from the first on the right to the second on the left; while the frigid glaze disappeared below the former, the latter was marked by thicker veins of ice jutting out towards them from beneath. Door number two it was, then.

Warlock gathered his nerve and his thoughts as John approached. He couldn't quite manage more than a glimmer of a smile that quickly faded, in answer to the other's nod. Eyebrows raising a bit at his friend's questions, Warlock glanced to the man they'd apprehended, now pinned and cuffed by the other agent. "To use... say..." he murmured to himself - or, in truth, not solely to himself. He fell half-quiet for a few moments, brow furrowed as his mouth mirrored how he sorted through the cacophony of guesses ringing in his head. His breath faintly caught when Eirg cawed over all the others to offer clarity. Well, as much clarity as could be expected of a scavenger demon talking about a murder case.

"...The rot." Warlock met John's eyes once more, full of a mess of emotions yet bright and focused. "Ret'aeyaced decays everything they touch. Everything. He'll have a patch of rot somewhere on him, maybe bandaged or perfumed so people don't notice."

"What's all this about?!" the detained man protested in the meantime. New soles of patent leather shoes struggled to find purchase on wear-flattened carpet, so he then tried to twist around to look at the three. Widened stare finding Warlock first, he added, "And how the hell did you do that?!"

'How', Warlock noticed (and felt a bit proud of himself for noticing). Not 'what was that', just 'how'.

"Oh, you're just gonna stare? Screw this, I bet you don't even know why you—" Before the man could spit any more vitriol, something sticky and dark was filming over his teeth. A horrid deep, wet cough wracked him, expelling a sickly-yellow glob spiderwebbed with black onto the floor. More coughs followed, drier than the first, while the man tried to turn his head away from the glob's reek.

When Warlock finally met his gaze once more, he was struck for the second time by the intensity in those green eyes. What had happened in the past that conjured such passion? Something very bad — there was no time for that thought to expand before Warlock continued. At the mention of ' decay, ' a short exhale escaped John's lips ( not a sound of surprise, but of pieces falling together ). Cody's body had appeared to be decomposing from the inside, a grotesque sort of demise that he had never seen prior, and hoped to never see again. How must that have felt? Dwelling on it nearly made him ill, a combination of horror for his old friend, and a sneaking guilt that Cody was ravaged by darkness despite the fact that he was the one embroiled in it every day.

John couldn't let himself think about it, feel like this about it; it wasn't useful, and that was what he needed to be right now. Pressing his nails hard into his palms, he nodded his response to Warlock's explanation. Find the rot, find the truth.

The sudden outburst of their detainee garnered both of their attentions. Glancing at the man's feet as they struggled on the carpeting, it was obvious that those shoes belonged somewhere grand. A custodian wearing expensive loafers to their job — hilarious. No one would risk damaging shoes like that by wearing them to genuinely clean or do handiwork.

This guy wasn't terribly good at sounding innocent either, with a reaction of immediate anger as opposed to an explanation and the questions lobbed at Warlock. The miniscule amount of dubiety he might have held had already evaporated.

Then came the coughs that heralded the dispelling of rot from the man's insides. Despite Vaughn's evident disgust, the grip kept on their suspect failed to loosen. As John attempted to decide whether he wanted to look away for a moment or look closer, Warlock's voice sounded oddly distant in his ear. When his gaze shifted to his companion, he found that it wasn't because he was distracted. No, Warlock's usual tone had truly chilled into a cadence that he had never heard before; while the face that turned to meet him softened slightly, it still left a tangle of disquietude in his chest.

The train of Hellboy's thoughts lightened a bit at his partner's impatience. "Alright, sweetheart," he grinned. "Loud and clear." His fingers retreated and he sat back, just long enough to shed his underwear with a few quick tugs from both hands, plus some assistance from his tail. While the latter dropped the garment somewhere behind him, Hellboy took up the lube bottle again to slick his length. He took it a bit slow so he could let the other watch, stone hand resting atop John's knee and stare fixed on that pretty face. "Gorgeous... and all for me," Hellboy murmured, softly awed despite his toothy smirk.

His gaze wandered down as he moved in closer, right palm sliding up onto John's side, for grounding if needed. His tail, meanwhile, curled around the other man's ankle simply to have that much more contact. As he lined himself up and carefully pushed in, Hellboy glanced between John's entrance and expression. Another moan escaped on another sigh at the tightness around the head of his cock, at how those silken walls were still just a little cool in comparison to his own temperature. Hellboy's left hand moved to massage John's thigh with small, soothing circles. Stare steady once again on his partner's face, he didn't stop, but neither did he slide home all in one moment.

As Hellboy's hand slicked that newly freed arousal, John caught his bottom lip between his teeth, hard. He wished he could reach for it, though the sudden weight of his companion's stone palm on his knee reminded him to wait ( difficult as that proved to be ). Instead, he curled his fingers in the sheets, one arm resting above his head while the other remained at his side. Patience, however, was even more of a struggle to maintain with Hellboy gazing at him, the look in those golden eyes enough to make John's heartbeat trip over itself. ' Gorgeous… and all for me. ' Hearing the expression on Hellboy's handsome visage given voice, he failed to silence the eager sound that rose in his throat. "Always."

His skin felt hot with his own blush and desire as Hellboy's palm slid up along his side, yet the corners of his lips still inched faintly higher at the sensation of a tail wrapping around his ankle. I love him — it flashed through John's mind more like a mantra than a thought, so thoroughly part of him that it was as present as his own heartbeat. Untangling the fingers of his left hand from the bed covers, he pressed them firmly atop Hellboy's just as the other man pushed past his entrance. Amid his own sharp gasp, he heard a distinct moan that sent his pulse fluttering. John had conjured that noise and oh, he couldn't imagine listening to anything better! Panting breaths escaped him as he focused on the pattern Hellboy's left hand massaged against his inner thigh and on relaxing his muscles once more.

He raised his hips in the meantime, to help ease off the rest of his clothes. Thoguh now entirely bare, Jun wouldn't take his eyes off the other, nor would his smile entirely fade. A painting, huh? Well, he wouldn't disagree - he'd just say the same about John, with all that soft lighting playing over fair skin and dark hair, and that breathtaking awe bright in hazel eyes.

Jun tipped his legs even further apart as John trailed kisses from his knee up the inner side of his thigh. Feeling his heartbeat thrumming against the other's lips added a slight vocality to his next indulgent sigh, only for the inhale after to snag for half a moment with the teasing skim of John's teeth against sensitive skin. His upper body, in the meantime, melted a bit more into the couch cushions. Watching John with half-lidded eyes, Jun smiled wider once more as their gazes met - both enjoyment and encouragement, with how close the man's lips were to his groin. He expected eagerness, expected teasing, expected fast and slow all at once and knew it'd be beautiful regardless.

His eyes flickering upwards to the handsome face gazing down at him, John couldn't resist leaning into the thumb brushing along his hairline. It pleased him endlessly, knowing he had coaxed forth such a feeling: that of a ' masterpiece. ' As it was, Jun was more than worthy of the designation, and he would spend the rest of the night demonstrating his conviction in it. Nevertheless, the softening of his companion's expression kept John's attention fixed with unspoken curiosity until it twined through the words that broke the quiet. ' …Hope they've all told you how much a work of art you are too. ' His lips parted while fresh warmth rose to his visage, and he fought the urge to rock his hips forward in search of friction.

"Never quite like that," he breathed, allowing his teeth to find another patch of skin. John continued littering marks along both of Jun's inner thighs, at times so close to the musician's groin that he could feel the hair there brushing against his cheek. The taste on his tongue remained just as sweet with every new bloom of color he created ( often accentuated by smudges of purple and gold, remnants of their prior kisses ), and he was certain it always would. His fingers, meanwhile, finally drifted to wrap around the base of Jun's cock. "You feel so good in my hand." John left the evidence of another bite before glancing up to Jun again. Deciding where to look was no simple task when each possibility was so tantalizing, yet his attention locked on those dark eyes.

There's a pinprick hole in the universe. It burns with an impossible light, searing and stretching across existence for a brief, shining moment, before vomiting forth a torrent of blood.

In some dirty back alley crimson pools on the concrete, trickling away from the battered form of a man absolutely drenched in it.

Earth standard gravity. Fucking COI again.

It takes all the energy left in his body to move, bracing himself on his intact arm and coughing out what feels like several gallons of blood before shifting so he collapses on his back this time, panting desperately in the cold air.

I did my time. I'm free. I'm free God damnit.

He's had worse evenings by a wide margin, even before joining the BPRD.

Nevertheless, he's seen and heard about more than his share about blood for one night ( or a few ). Although John has met a fair number of vampires by now, this was the first unable to garner satisfaction until they were dripping in the crimson ichor.

He's mulling this over, clearing his mind beneath what can be seen of the stars from this deep in the city, when he hears it. First, a crashing sound from the alley up ahead, then wet, wrenching coughs.

Immediately, John sprints for the narrow backway. What the hell is that?

Skidding to a halt, the first thing that hits him is the blood. It's seeping into the asphalt, the metallic smell suffusing the air. All of it seems to originate from a figure lying on their back: their hair and clothing soaked in it, their skin practically scarlet.