Chapter Twelve: Morgan – Monster

Thanks to my beta, Greeneyedconstellations.

Warning for heavy non-con. The last non-con of this piece - everything else is dub-con at worst.

This is the darkest point between the dawn. It really only gets better from here (sort of), I promise.

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Night brings an uncomfortable kind of quiet to the forest. Morgan knows forests. Not as well as JJ, nowhere near as well as JJ, but he knows them enough to know that this kind of waiting quiet is a warning.

Something's watching you the quiet screams, and Morgan listens.

He presses his back against the wall of the cave and keeps his eyes locked on the opening. His gun is slick, hands sweating just enough for the cold to burn his skin. His eyes waver, even as he keeps alert by trailing his gaze across the slit of the entrance, blurring and threatening to close. Every time he blinks, he expects something to be staring back at him upon opening them again.

Nothing does.

Yet.

His throat prickles with the bitter air, reminding him that it's only too easy to forget that cold can dehydrate just as quickly as the heat. He coughs and his lungs burn. He wonders if he's getting sick.

Sick like Reid, maybe. If he collapses here, he'll be dog chow by morning.

Reid got bit.

Then Reid got sick.

He coughs again.

Shifting slightly, pins and needles in his legs make him grit his teeth and bring a fresh wave of throbbing pain to his ankle. Turned it probably, on the way in here. He glances down, letting his attention waver from the opening for just a second, the injury impossible to see in the pitch black.

Instead, he crouches and runs the fingers of his free hand under the hem of his pants, feeling his fingers catch on the sticky suggestion of dried blood, brushing the slightest hint of a wound with his fingertips. Shit. One of those bastards must have nicked him.

A rock shifts, just a pebble. Could be anything. Morgan stares at the entry, at the barest hint of what could be moonlight glinting on the slick rock. It flickers.

He fires and a yelp rewards him, followed by the sound of scrambling paws.

"Any of you sticking your nose in here is going to get it shot off," he shouts, and a low growl follows. He checks his ammo.

Four.

That's okay. They don't know that. He's just gotta bluff them out until Shades gets back. That's it. He closes his eyes and does the closest thing to praying that feels hopeful right now. Just hang in there, Derek Don't let your momma down now by dying in some godforsaken forest in the middle of nowhere.

Don't let Pen down.

The waiting begins.

The darkness turns absolute. Before, Morgan could see the puff of his breath in front of his eyes. Now he can't even see his hand if he holds it in front of his face.

They wait for that darkness and they try to sneak in under the cover of it. He shoots one when he hears the sound of something brushing against the entrance. There's the sound of rock splintering and a wet crack, something falls.

Silence. He wishes he still had his flashlight. Probably somewhere in this forest, hopelessly lost to him. Just like his team.

Three bullets left.

He's sweating with fear. This kind of terror, this kind of waiting, it breaks people down like they're made of glass and being tapped away at by a hammer. There's only so long he can stand trembling in a cave before he starts shooting at shadows. And he does, feeling sweat dripping down his back and his leg shaking, shaking, throbbing, burning…

Two bullets now and the muzzle flash illuminates the empty eye of a wolf slumped in the doorway, the other an empty, bloodied socket. It also leaves red lights dancing across his retinas, sending his brain into overdrive.

A low growl.

One bullet now.

He gasps, the air hard to breathe around a chest that's tightening and choking him. The sound is ragged. It cracks the silence and trails off into what he'd call a sob if he wasn't so determined to be in control.

He's not cold. He's burning and shaking and his leg buckles, bringing him down.

Light dances on the cave wall, through the opening, and Morgan can't look away from the slow drip of blood down the dead monster's gaping muzzle from the ruined remains of its eye.

His other eye is hazel. A human colour. A human.

A human that will be buried a wolf, if anyone bothers to bury it at all.

"Who's there?" he rasps, aiming again. The flashlight means people. It means someone's come. But they're werewolves, hah, they're monsters and monsters don't only come in the darkness. Morgan knows that better than anyone. He wipes the back of his hand against his forehand, clearing the sweat away, clearing his vision.

One bullet.

He sights.

Someone slides through, placing their knee on the dead wolf like they hardly even notice what's beneath them, using their hand on the wolf's shoulder to stabilize themselves as they sidle in. The beam of the flashlight hits Morgan's eyes, blinding him.

He can't see.

"Who are you?" he snaps, holding the gun still. He'll shoot. He'll fucking shoot. They don't say anything.

He squeezes the trigger and the light dances down once more as the figure straightens slightly, still half crouched on the wolf, and regards him with blank eyes set in a familiar face.

Morgan jerks the gun up, his finger skipping in his haste to wrench it away from the trigger, dropping it as the shock of what almost happened thunders through him and chases away the burning.

"Reid, fuck!" he yells, and his voice cracks. "I almost shot you!"

The corner of Reid's mouth flickers, nearly a smile, and he tosses the flashlight down. It rolls, bumping against the gun and Morgan's boot. There isn't enough space in here for him and Reid; they'll be pressed together if he comes in any closer.

Morgan's face flushes as a rush of heat symbolizes the burning returning, the fever. Just a fever. He picks up the flashlight and his gun with trembling hands and shines it at Reid's chest, careful not to blind the kid. "Reid?"

He's staring right at his friend when the man, the man Morgan has known and worked beside and fucking loved for seven years, laughs brokenly, shudders, and drops into the shape of a shaggy wolf with shadowed eyes and a twitching muzzle.

Morgan doesn't shoot him. He doesn't shout. He just stares and the wolf, Reid, slips out the cave and into the night.

A laugh echoes back, and it's feminine and mocking.

He puts aside the horror. He puts aside the fear. Neither of them matter now. Not now.

Not now that he knows. If they've got Reid, they could have anyone. Any one of them. The dead wolf grins. It has hazel eyes. Spencer isn't the only one with dark eyes.

Emily's eyes are brown. So are Hotch's.

Are Rossi's? He can't remember. He gags.

The ground is cold when he sits. He puts the gun next to him. He cradles the flashlight in his hands. Wolves flash past the entrance, blurred in the shivering beam of light. He can't shoot them. Not any of them. Not now that he knows what he knows.

They're just playing with him now.

And all he can do is wait.

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Reid comes back when the burning is all Morgan knows.

It comes as a fog, creeping up his body, and he jerks awake from a sleep he doesn't remember slipping into to find his skin on fire and his cock straining against his pants, vague memories of dreams filled with skin and touch and blood fading slowly from his mind.

Reid looks at him. His eyes are empty and he's close, so close, close enough to touch and Morgan does, tracing the back of his palm down the ragged stubble on the other man's cheek. Reid doesn't twitch, just watches, and Morgan wonders if he'll let him pull him close, hug him tight, hold him so he can't fade back into the night and into danger.

"Reid," he says, or begs, and his mind is spinning in circles, leaving him lost. Reid winces, eyes darting to the opening and back again, and he slides his palm up Morgan's leg, knee, thigh, pressing the heel of his hand against the hard length tenting the front of his thick winter pants.

Morgan gasps. Arches into that wanting hand, feeling it tense against him and push down, fingers pressing down and curling.

Still asleep, his mind whispers, almost a statement but also a question, because Reid's mouth has slipped open, and in the white-harsh light of the flashlight his cheeks are pink and his mouth is pinker and Morgan's never wanted to fuck that mouth before but now it's all he can imagine…

Stop, his brain says and he lunges back, his skull smacking the rock-face. Reid doesn't even jump and that's wrong; the guy is normally hyped up on caffeine and edgy as a thoroughbred, but now he barely blinks.

Don't, says his brain once more, but Reid kneels on either side of his legs, he's hard too, and Morgan wants with a fierceness that's breathtaking.

"This isn't you," he tries to say five times and gets out on the sixth, his tongue clumsy as Reid bows, his hair curtaining in front of his eyes in dirty clumps, his body warm and solid and real against Morgan's legs. Reid presses his mouth, the mouth that only now Morgan can't stop thinking about, against his crotch, mouthing at the material, his breath hot and wet and leaving a damp patch on his pants that Morgan strains against. "Reid, Spencer. Stop. Don't."

Reid stops and shrinks back, cowering almost wolf-like on his legs, like Clooney when Morgan shouts at him, and it makes Morgan sick to see. His eyes dart to the door, back to Morgan, and Reid's terrified and empty all at once. He puts his hand to his mouth, almost like he's going to be sick, but just as quickly drops it down to press against his shoulder, through the collar of his torn shirt.

Reid's just wearing a shirt and pants, nothing but a shirt and pants, and he must be freezing, but Morgan realizes now that he's forgotten the cold and wonders if Reid has, too.

"I don't want this," Morgan lies, his cock throbbing in time with his heartbeat, and Reid nods and slides off of him, reaching down to press the hand that had covered his mouth against Morgan's ankle, gripping it tight.

For a moment it's comforting, then it brings pain, and his nails catch, bite; Morgan almost shouts with the need it brings in a rush, and he almost comes right then and there, holy fuckfuckfuck Spencer fuck.

"You will," Reid says miserably, letting go and showing Morgan the hand that gleams slickly with blood, both of their blood. "I'm sorry."

And then he's a wolf again and then he's gone.

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It doesn't help.

The flashlight lays abandoned, his gun too, and Morgan couldn't care less because he's coming again, spilling onto his palm and the sand, and it doesn't help, nothing helps. He's still hard and pulsing and wanting and he stares helplessly at his dick and tries to think of anything that will bring him to some sort of end. Some sort of end to this ceaseless, consuming need.

He thinks of Spencer and his mouth: that mouth around him, against him, moaning prettily as he swallows, come on his lips, just a hint. He'd look up and smile crookedly, make a joke, some stupid fact maybe, and fuckplease. Please please please.

"Spencer," he moans as his body shudders into another false-start, leaving him trembling on the brink. His mind shifts to imagining the other man naked, flushed, under him, panting as Morgan moves inside him. He's never been into men, never, but he knows if Spencer comes back he won't say no, he can't, not when it feels so right, the only thing he can think about, his body and mind focused on it.

He closes his eyes for a second, and when he opens them Reid is there and Morgan is lost.

He blinks and the hand stroking him isn't his anymore and his fingers are biting into slim hips, pulling them close.

He closes his eyes again to try and catch his breath.

"What did you do to me?" he asks, unfairly maybe, because Reid's back is against his chest now and his head is tilted around just enough that if Morgan leans forward, he can brush his lips against the corner of his mouth and taste the misery that's painted there. He amends his statement in that moment of clarity. "Fuck, man, what did they do to us?"

Reid shrugs, almost uncaringly, and Morgan feels a surge of heat travel down his body in a lightning-fast bolt as the movement brings the slender man's bare leg to brush against the hard cock that Morgan is pressing between the back of his thighs.

If he could, he almost softens with shock. "I'm not fucking you," he promises Reid, grabbing that promise and clinging onto it with everything he has. "No shitting way. Not happening."

He holds him close anyway, not letting him go, and he can't tell if he's hugging him, restraining him, or a bit of both. Reid isn't fighting either way.

"It's fine, Derek," Reid says, and for a second, he sounds like himself. "She won't let either of us leave, you know." He smiles and it's not his smile, not really, and this time Morgan does lean forward and kiss him. Reid turns so their lips can meet properly, hot breath panting, choking back a moan that Morgan swallows.

They're still kissing when the heat returns.

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Opening his eyes again and he's coming, finally, fucking finally and this time it's everything he's needed and he cries out with the pleasure of it. There's a hot warmth on his hand, a liquid heat, and he hums happily when he realizes his mate is coming too.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs into hair that's matted to his partner's neck with sweat and dirt and something else, something that tastes salty and wet when he tastes that skin, delicious and maddening, and he bites once gently just because he can. "I'm sorry," he says again, and doesn't really know why.

"Mine," someone else says smugly, a woman, and Reid lifts his head.

Morgan feels his desire at the woman's voice. It changes him. He turns from Reid in Morgan's arms to a stranger, an empty stranger.

He frowns. It doesn't feel right.

The woman is noxious. She's wrong. When Reid goes to her, Morgan follows.

But he keeps his distance.