#killer cheekbone alert

[angeldcgs]

just because a person was capable of monstrous things, that didn’t make them an outright monster. devyn and eddie’s upbringings led them to two different conclusions on the matter, but her opinion wasn’t solely a sign of the times. growing up surrounded by vampire media that emphasized their humanity underneath the killer instinct certainly aided in her ability to see him as someone she could trust, relating him to those reluctant, self-loathing vampires concocted by the likes of anne rice and stephanie meyer, but then there was her more personal experience with mortality and morality— in a strange way, eddie reminded devyn of her father. he, too, hadn’t wanted to harm anyone, and she had witnessed just how difficult it was for him to carry out his heinous acts, but he’d been fully convinced it was necessary. even as she’d grown older and understood that, no matter his intentions, what he’d done was objectively wrong, she still couldn’t hold him at fault, and neither would she with eddie and what he’d done to survive. eddie had something her father never did, though, and that was the good sense to be aware of his actions, up until the frenzied blood lust had taken precedent. had she been harboring any doubts as to whether or not he was still the good guy she'd come to care for, his treatment of her after the fact would've landed him back in her good graces in a heartbeat. the way he held her was so tender, cradling her in his arms as if to protect her from the dangers of the world, when he himself was the biggest threat to her at the moment. devyn didn't see it that way, and she likely never would. as he echoed his thanks, she let out a soft hum of satisfaction, adjusting herself in his arms so she was sitting up a bit more once she'd become more alert. moving too fast made things go fuzzy, and her limbs still felt heavy but she was steadily wading her way through that fog she'd fallen into as a result of his greed, and back into the light of day. her breath hitched in her throat as he caught her by the wrist, ceasing her curious exploration of his lips and redirecting her touch to cup his cheek, the smooth skin cool to the touch under her steadily warming palm. stroking her thumb up the ridge of his cheekbone, she admired the high arching angle of it, his features coming into sharp focus the longer she focused in on him, so overwhelmed with affection that she once again felt lightheaded. "mmmm..." she wrinkled her nose slightly as she thought of a way to properly describe the multitude of emotions she'd experienced during the feeding, how to put it into words without potentially scaring him off. it was as bad as he'd warned her it would be, and yet even more blissful than she could've imagined. the knowledge of what she'd given him, the deep spiritual connection she'd felt just from knowing she was providing him with several days worth of strength was truly the most satisfying of all, and to confess such would be to allude to how deeply her feelings for him extended. "it was good," she murmured, using her hold on the side of his face to subtly draw him in. "i've never felt so close to someone before..." her eyes again flittered down to his mouth, leaning in like she was impulsively drawn into his orbit, though she paused with her face just inches from his, hovering there for a moment to give him the opportunity to pull back before she finally followed through and pressed her lips to his. it was nothing but a soft kiss at first, only a bit of gentle pressure as she tested the waters, but then her own hunger got the best of her, and her lips parted before focusing their efforts on his lower lip, slotting it between hers so she could taste the metallic tang of the blood that still stained it.

when he considered being in devyn's shoes, with her perched on top of him instead, taking what she needed till she was full and satisfied, eddie supposed he could understand how she was able to view the act as something positive, how she could throw aside any concept of disgust and be so forthcoming in the face of danger. his concept of bloodsucking had been tainted for him by the lack of choice he'd been offered when it had first happened to him, it'd been done in some backwards act of kindness, his turning into a vampire his only shot at any sort of life at all after living with sickness for so long but it wasn't something he'd ever wished for. he'd had nothing but negative experiences, his entire view of what he was and what that meant for the world was tainted with darkness but devyn didn't have that, she'd grown up around stories that took the myth of the vampire and made it something more humane and palatable, he was almost envious of how easily she'd come to accept him because it'd been centuries and he was yet to do the same for himself. it felt wrong to admit out loud how good she tasted, especially when it must have been so obvious considering how he'd drank from her like a street pup, ravaging her for every last drop till he remembered he was trying to be domesticated, but at that moment he was so keen to give her everything she wanted in thanks for the gift she'd given him that he pushed aside his own apprehensions. "yes- yes, you... you taste good." he admitted, though good felt like nothing in comparison to his actual feelings. if he told her how delicious she actually was then it was likely she'd encourage him to drink from her again and he couldn't do that, not when he had learned how easy it was for him to get lost when it came to her. once back in his bedroom and devyn propped in his arms, eddie did his best to let her drink from the glass without too much mess. they were already both in such a state that it didn't matter what else they spilt but even with his help, devyn's frantic gulps left her with juice trickling down her face, dripping down past her chin and onto her collarbones. cleaning up was his number one priority once she had the strength to move without his help, it'd help both of them feel a little more normal again and bring eddie back down from the frantic state of bloodlust that he still felt the urge to dip his toes back into thanks to what remained staining his face and hands. he noticed her heartbeat pick up again as he placed the glass down on the bedside table and instead of being curious about what had caused the sudden flurry, all he could feel was relief in hearing how strong it was again, even if only momentarily. "thank you." he parroted softly with the smallest smile, then froze as devyn's hand reached up and found its way to his mouth, her delicate fingers running over his plump, bloody lips like how one might stroke a blanket to test how soft it was. he didn't know how to respond to such a bold gesture, especially in conjunction to everything else he was trying to make sense of rushing through his mind. without thinking, he reached down and took a gentle hold of her wrist, pulling her away from his mouth but not his face altogether. instead, he brought her hand up to cradle the side of his face, allowing him to lean in against her and take a brief moment of respite from all the panic he was causing for himself. his dark eyes fluttered closed and for that short moment, eddie wasn't stricken with guilt or remorse, he felt contented and safe in devyn's palm and he could pretend that everything was alright. "what was it like?" he already knew but for some reason, he needed to hear it in her words. was it everything she thought it would be? was it scarier? was there still that desire to keep feeding him? the answers to those questions scared him, yet that only made him more eager to hear.

[obriengf]

Idk if these are still open but if they are ‘I need to make love to you tonight’ with Dylan please :)

Warnings: mentions of sexual language/activity, swearing, drunkeness

Notes: using [THIS] for brief inspiration!

"I NEED TO MAKE LOVE TO YOU TONIGHT."

His words, although harnessing every ounce of sweetness that this simple world could offer, was slurred loudly through his wandering lips as they targetted the side of your neck. The reverberations of his drunken moans created a story of salaciousness that pressed to your skin, igniting a shiver of excitement that ran up your spine. He had a knack for setting your senses on high alert, the reaction your body had to just his touch alone was enough to send you into a longing daze of euphoric phenomena. What made matters more interesting was that Dylan knew exactly what he was doing; every word he spoke, pressure point he sucked, caress he dragged over your tingling skin. It was his way of expressing what he wanted, yearned for, and that he wasn't going to back down, not in the utmost slightest.

"No, you need to take your aspirin." Your retort managed to squeak past your faintly parted lips, arm jarring as it reached out to push back his heaving chest. The muscles that flexed below your prodding fingertips shook with soft laughter, Dylan finding hilarity in your attempt to pretend that you didn't need this as much as he did. He was too disoriented to remain upright before Dylan's body slipped back from your own, his head bouncing softly off the pillow as he settled down. Never once did his hooded eyes leave the slightly amused expression that contorted your features; lips pursed to perfectly complement the soft head shake you subconsciously offered. Your tongue clicked behind your teeth, gaze shying away from the deep reverence that featured within his golden hues. Even when inebriated, the man still looked at you as if you put all the stars in the sky.

"Dylan, I'm not joking."

The attempt at a serious tone slightly wavered before you watched his smile grow, one possessing great love and devotion as he settled back into the softness of the pillow. "You're going to wake up with a killer hangover, and I won't have you fucking whinging to me again about how bad the room is spinning-" Quickly, your voice began to die in your throat. Words dissipated at the feeling of breathlessness as if you'd momentarily forgotten how to exhale. Not that it was difficult to determine why, with simplicity in its finest form acting as the reason for your broken focus; his bottom lip tugged between teeth as Dylan felt his heart swell with adoration at your nurturing nature.

"Mmm, don' need that when I 'ave you with me, baby.." His voice was raspy, a deepened tone that encouraged a rosy blush to devour the complexion of your cheeks. The man could play you like a fiddle.

Dylan chuckled, his chest jumping before he dropped his hands flat against the mattress. It was slow as he pushed himself back to an upright position, your thoughts swarming with hopefulness that his mind had changed about taking the pain killers and calling it a night - alas, as you turned back from the pill bottle on the nightstand, you could feel the upturn of Dylan's nose graze against your cheekbone. Warm breath fanned down your neck as you were met with the scent of cheap beer and whisky, an odd combination that you were finding captivating the more he pressed into you. Dylan's fingers splayed over your waist as the other caressed down your cheek, loose strands of hair soon taking up vacancy behind your ear. His touch was soft as it trailed over patches of exposed skin; a story told through the tenderness he possessed so proudly, his growing smirk ghosting over your lips when he felt the spike of goosebumps he provoked.

You were breathing him in as if he were your lifeline, the feeling of your noses as they nuzzled so incredibly soft and close to one another enhancing the bittersweet incapability to find dependency away from his presence. He was a drug and you were intoxicated by the desperation he pulled from you; the neediness you developed for his protective hold around your frame and how his kisses encapsulated complete bliss and ecstasy. You were constantly drawn to the kindness that always reached his eyes and how he would, without a second thought, give up the world if it meant having you happy and safe by his side.

He wasn't going to kiss you - not like this, not when he could barely hold his head up without it falling against your forehead, or to the crook of your neck where he often took solitude. The man gulped harshly, his adam's apple bobbing when his nose traced an invisible line across your cheek. The desire to ravish you right there and then grew stronger, despite the inner conflict he faced about taking advantage when he was in such a drunken demeanor. He needed you close and he needed you more, but he couldn't.

Your hands had somehow found a home grasping at his shoulders before you slowly pulled them down to Dylan's chest, the erratic thumping of his heart dancing against your palm. You gingerly licked your lips, finally drawing in a deep breath as your mind lowered to an unalcoholic sobriety of its own. "Dyl, just drink your water and take the damn medicine, please. Don't make me mom you."

His chest jumbled with another small laugh, "Mom me, huh? All bossy-like? Mmm, that's hot, babe.. not a threat.."

Swiftly, your head fell back, eyes closing as they face the ceiling. You released a groan from the base of your throat, frustration taking ownership of the tone. He was impossible. "Why are you like this?" You said in exasperation, hands rubbing over his t-shirt before journeying to the man's wrists. Your fingers curled around them, a slight squeeze shown as a subconscious act of affection. Your head shook from a developing idea, the utilization of bribery being the last tactic you wanted to exercise but the childish man sitting across your bed didn't leave you much choice, regardless of just how much you loved him.

"Take the fucking medicine and I'll give you a blowjob."

Brown eyes immediately grew wide as if he was embedded with an alarm clock, an indicator of some sort that caught the man's attention when the uncharacteristic sentence fell from your lips. He had to blink twice, three times, to process whether he heard you correctly. He could determine your sincerity by the expecting quirk of your eyebrow and how your arms were now crossed over your chest, waves of solemnity pulling at every inch of your face and body. He was in disbelief that you were fucking serious.

"...Quick, babe, you have five seconds to make your choice." You continued after his verbal lack of communication. Your fingers were already beginning to dip past the waistband of his jeans, the muscles of his abdomen flexing against the delicate swirl of your gentle touch. "Five... four... three..."

"Yes - fuck, Y/N/N.. I'll do it, please.."

[write-or-wrong88]

ANA DE ARMAS AS DETECTIVE REBECCA LEIGHTON

Another year; another LAPD fundraiser. Lucy gestured to the bartender for another club soda with a lime twist and readjusted her shawl to make sure it was covering the scars from the bullet wounds she’d earned in a firefight last summer. It was a goddamn shame to waste a dress like this one on a night like this. The ballroom was packed with men in Armani suits and women in Valentino dresses and diamond earrings that cost more than Lucy could make on a lifetime of LAPD salary. The air reeked of expensive cologne and scotch, and the 5-piece orchestra was playing just a little too loud. Lucy was very aware that this fundraiser was not for the likes of a lowly patrol cop—unless said lowly patrol cop happened to fit the LAPD’s diversity hiring initiative. Lucy had pretty much reached her limit for answering intrusive, ignorant questions about her gritty and exciting job as a female cop in LA. Lucy could handle the standard morbid curiosity questions—Did it hurt to get shot? How many people have you killed in the line of duty? What’s the worst thing you’ve ever seen on the job?—without so much as blinking. It was the political questions that set her teeth on edge. Well, that and the blatant sexual harassment by the wealthy suits in the room. Lucy glanced down the bar and her eyes caught on a woman standing with her back to the glossy wood, surveying the room thoughtfully. One finger played idly with the stem of a sweating martini glass. Rebecca Leighton. Lucy had never met Detective Rebecca Leighton in person, but Lucy knew her career well. The youngest female detective in the LAPD who came face-to-face with a serial killer last year—and won. The case had made national news, along with a photo of her at the crime scene, glaring at the reporter’s camera as she pressed a hand to the bloody wound in her shoulder. Rebecca Leighton looked very different tonight than she had in that photo. Lucy could see the ragged red scar slashing downward, splitting tawny skin from collarbone to the plunging neckline of her satin navy dress, but the scar wasn’t what drew Lucy’s eyes. It was the quiet confidence and controlled grace she radiated. She had trained to make her body a weapon and wasn’t afraid to use it. Rebecca’s head turned. She had cop eyes that could find a watcher in the crowd, just like Lucy could. Her dark eyes were sharp and alert, and Lucy felt the force of the woman’s gaze all the way down her spine. Her cheekbones and jaw were all angles and strength, but her short dark hair softened the lines of her face. A slow, hesitant smile that spread across her face when she met Lucy’s eyes. Lucy felt her body respond, lighting up from the inside, lips lifting in a smile. It felt impossible to do anything except move closer. Lucy tugged off her shawl and dropped it over the back of the barstool, barely feeling the sting of the chilly air on her exposed skin. It felt different to carry the scars proudly. Better. Truthful. Free. A moment later, Lucy had another reason to be glad she’d abandoned the shawl as Rebecca’s eyes traced slowly down her body. Lucy felt her skin spark as if the other woman’s gaze was a physical touch. Rebecca’s smile warmed at Lucy’s approach, and she set her drink on the glossy surface of the bar. “Lucy Chen. I was hoping I’d get a chance to meet you tonight.” “Detective Leighton.” Lucy looked up into her eyes and felt her heart beat faster. “I was hoping the same.”

[away-from-anthills]

chapter three-

(prologue) (chapter one) (chapter two)

Although WindClan was the closest of all the Clans to it, the road to Fourtrees had never seemed longer.

The thick-barked trees seemed to stare down at Antstar as he led WindClan towards the hollow. On one side of him was Whitetooth, always looking ahead and always alert; on the other side was Russetfoot, who Antstar had decided to make his deputy almost as soon as he had returned from the Moonstone when he had received his nine lives.

A shiver scattered down his spine as he remembered the events that had happened after the last gathering. Rainleap gone, in an instant; a Clan suddenly left midair after being thrown off the cliff. And yet in all the turmoil, he had risen triumphant.

Or at least that was the impression he had gotten. He was supposed to feel triumphant, wasn’t he?

It had been a long ladder for Antstar to climb from Clanless kit to leader of all of WindClan, but he was beginning to realize at the top that he had a fear of heights.

Eventually, Fourtrees began to come into view, and Antstar could identify the four feline figures who sat at the Great Rock. All of them- even Currantstar, although he had only been leader for about twelve moons- seemed so used to it all, not even reacting to the leagues of chatter that surrounded them. It was as if their paws had melded with the granite below them.

“And I thought ShadowClan was bad with being late…” Pigeonstar’s coarse tone rang out above the crowd. The blue-gray tom was sporting a new scar that framed his left cheekbone.

“WindClan will be here soon enough,” said Tulipstar reassuringly. She had a tangy quality to her voice- not hostile, but not exactly warm either, like a mentor about to take their apprentice to a rigorous day of battle training. “I’ve heard rumors that something’s happened to them. Surely Shalestar will tell us.”

Shalestar. That was another thing. How was Antstar going to explain all that? Rainleap and Shalestar, both dead in the span of a month.

Part of him worried the others would think he killed him.

WindClan dispersed into the clearing, blending into the crowds. Spiderpaw was, very clearly, trying her best to not brag about her mentor now being the Clan leader. Toadpool and Webwhisker were striking a pleasant conversation with a dark red tabby tom from RiverClan with tufted ears. Adderthorn, a rather reclusive WindClan cat, kept to herself, although her gaze seemed to be fixed on a small dark brown tom from ShadowClan who had a marbled coat.

“Come, Antstar.” Whitetooth, with Marblepaw by their side, led Antstar through the gathering crowd, weaving in and out of the clouds of conversation. Eventually, they reached the medicine cats, who were having a friendly debate about whether yellow or orange marigold was more effective.

“I leave you here.” They pointed their tail at the top of the rock, where an empty spot sat between Tulipstar and Currantstar. “Best of luck. May StarClan look upon your first gathering with smiling faces.”

With a bit of effort, Antstar leapt onto the rock. He was surprised at how smooth the summit was- as if generations of pawsteps had carved it.

“Greetings, Antstep.” Tulipstar bowed her head.

Currantstar, however, looked a tad more confused. “Have Shalestar and Rainleap taken ill? I wouldn’t expect Shalestar to skip a Gathering. That old workhorse would go even in downpour…”

Antstar stammered. “I…”

He looked to Whitetooth for a second, who gave him an encouraging nod. He then looked to the other leaders. Their eyes felt like hot coals launching towards him.

But he would have to say it now.

“…Shalestar and Rainleap both passed away this prior moon.”

A sudden commotion hit the Gathering. Cats of the other Clans looked to their WindClan acquaintances in shock; WindClan simply nodded their heads and sighed.

“Both of them? How?” Pigeonstar’s eyes narrowed as his face twisted itself from comprehension into a scowl.

“On the way back from the last Gathering, there was an accident involving a monster. Shalestar appointed me as deputy in his stead-“ -he shot a quick glance into the crowd, seeking approval- “-and he passed away of illness not long after. We in WindClan mourn them both greatly, and have spent the past moon grieving for them.”

Pigeonstar, however, looked unconvinced. “How do we know you didn’t kill them?”

Antstar felt ill, unsheathing his claws to keep himself from falling off the Great Rock from dizziness. But the SkyClan leader continued, fashioning himself the great detective. “For all we know, you could have killed Rainleap, made it look like an accident, have Shalestar elect you as deputy, and then kill him, too!” He drew his lips in a snarl. “And it doesn’t help that cats of your kind don’t become WindClan leader so easy.”

But then, Currantstar stepped forward. “Many of us in ShadowClan are not Clan-born, like Antstar here. One of my medicine cats, Rosettepelt, is among them, and she is one of the most gifted healers we know.” He advanced forward towards Pigeonstar, his gaze steady and stern. “So if you want to remain on positive terms with us, I suggest you watch it.”

Pigeonstar seemed as if he were about to say something, but reason got the better of him.

“Furthermore, my friends,” started Whitetooth from the medicine cat crowd, “I can assure you that Antstar speaks truth. I prepared both bodies and aided Shalestar in his final hours. As he lay dying, he was content with his choice in Antstep.”

There was a low murmur throughout the Gathering discussing the death of the old leader. Even though Antstar tried not to, he bent his ears towards the crowd to get a better listen.

“Well,” said Pigeonstar, “we have no proof he didn’t kill Shalestar, now, do we?”

Currantstar and Tulipstar looked unconvinced as they looked over the Burmese tom in front of them. “You realize Antstar was Shalestar’s own apprentice, Pigeonstar,” added Tulipstar dryly. “And Shalestar took quite the liking to him.”

Tatteredstar of ThunderClan, however, was studying him, very very deeply, like she was inspecting the double barrel of a rifle she was about to stuff with gunpowder. Finally, she stepped back. The massive molly sat down, her expression unchanged as always.

“I don’t think the boy killed Shalestar.” She spoke in a thick ThunderClan drawl. “But we shouldn’t underestimate him.” She paused, as if she was taking the moment to rehearse her thoughts to herself. “He’s got killer between his eyes.”

Killer in his eyes. Antstar felt unsettled. Killer? What does she mean? And why-

But the other leaders simply seemed to nod, as if a silent agreement had been reached that they shouldn’t further push Antstar.

Perhaps they all had killers dancing in their eyes.

Pigeonstar seemed to back off, although he didn’t look pleased.

“Is there any other news in WindClan to report?” asked Tulipstar.

“…There is nothing else to report.”

Antstar stepped back, and Tatteredstar began to prepare herself to speak. Tatteredstar’s mere presence alone made Antstar feel weaker. Tatteredstar was an almighty oak; massive, muscular, battle-scarred and a pillar of her Clan, he was a mere dandelion, who bent over and crumpled in the slightest breeze, beside her. Having a good look at her didn’t help. He saw more scars on her now than he ever had before- across her face, across her flank, even down her legs. Her claws were off-white and long, jutting out from the tufts of fur betwixt her toes, and while her fur was generally well-groomed, a mat or two seemed just under the surface in the ruff of fur around her neck. She had two bottom fangs that stuck out; they had yellowed in their years of exposure and her bottom lip seemed to have shaped itself around them. Her tail was short, compared to her body, and it would not surprise Antstar if she had lost part of it in the throes of battle. Her big, yellow eyes, which were surrounded by oily discharge that discolored her fur, seemed to both stare into the horizon and at whatever was in front of her at once.

“ThunderClan has been doing well this past moon. We extend our condolences to WindClan for their loss of Shalestar,” she began. “He was leader alongside me for many years. We had our disagreements, but I held the tom in high regard, as I am sure all of us do.”

Shalestar and Tatteredstar had been the two oldest leaders, Antstar recalled. She had been leader for about twelve seasons by the time Shalestar ascended, and while the two didn’t interact much and had their differences, there was an air of respect between the two.

Antstar recalled how hollow-looking and feeble Shalestar had appeared in death. Tatteredstar, however, had no sign of slowing down. He wondered how she managed to do it.

“We have been lucky to have had two healthy litters of kits born into our Clan. Sleetwhisker has given birth to two mollies, Vinekit and Shrikekit; and Sootspots has given birth to four toms and a molly, Mothkit, Fogkit, Stumpkit, Cedarkit, and Clawkit. In addition, Foxbriar is set to give birth to her kits within the next quarter-moon. We will have our paws very full… and it will also mean we will have more mouths to feed.” She shot a pointed glance at Tulipstar.

“Also- in addition- there was an attempted uprising by a ThunderClan cat named Rosefire.” The Gathering crowds pricked their ears- Rosefire was a cat who had been known by many for his friendly nature and how he disliked Tatteredstar and her deputy, Eelwhisker. He was a very vocal cat, and would often joke about starting genuine rebellion against them in order to pursue a dream of all five clans being united. Many thought he was a tad extreme, of course, but he was generally well-liked.

But Tatteredstar never minced words. “The so-called uprising was over as soon as it began. I dealt with Rosefire. You will not be seeing him again.”

There was a stunned silence.

It was only then that it really struck Antstar what cat he was dealing with. The matter of Rosefire, to Tatteredstar, was not a personal matter, and there was not a look of cruelty, resentment, or even annoyance in the ThunderClan leader’s yellow eyes. Rosefire had intruded on ThunderClan’s safety, and Tatteredstar had dispatched him. It began and ended there.

And then, Tatteredstar stepped back. “ThunderClan has nothing more to report.”

After what seemed like forever, Currantstar stepped up to speak. “ShadowClan has spent the moon recuperating after the fire we reported at the last Gathering. We are, again, very lucky that it did not affect us too harshly. Besides that, we have no new news to report; we are deeply sorry for WindClan’s loss of Shalestar and Rainleap.”

As soon as he had begun, he had ended. Antstar admired his charisma, his charm, the way he looked like a sculpture; Currantstar was a perfect leader.

And he had become leader so young, too. He and Antstar were about the same age, after all.

If he can do it, and be a perfect leader, I can do it, too…

“We have been experiencing difficulties with rogues on SkyClan territory,” Pigeonstar announced. “I suspect this is the same group that has been bothering RiverClan territory. However, we have fought them off successfully,” he said. He was very pointed with his words. “In addition, two of our apprentices became warriors- Bumbleshade and Silverskip.”

There was a round of cheer for the two freshly-graduated warriors. Pigeonstar then backed away, and Tulipstar, the very small white molly with ginger splotches, at long last took the stage.

“We are continuing to deal with the rogues on our territory. We have started to drive them off, but it’s a tough process. Just this moon alone we have had to deal with the untimely deaths of Yellowstripe and Sleekwater, and our resources are running dry. However, there is hope. Oatwhisker became a warrior this month, and one of our mollies gave birth to two fine young kits, Magpiekit and Frondkit.”

The little white-and-orange molly kept a steady eye on Tatteredstar- giving a clear implication about how much she wanted Sunningrocks. Their agreement would run out by the next Gathering- and, by the looks of it, Tulipstar had every intention to keep the territory.

Slowly, the gathering would down like a spring-powered toy. SkyClan was the first to leave; then ThunderClan, and then ShadowClan, until only WindClan and RiverClan were left. Antstar would have left earlier, but he still felt dizzy and his head felt sore from sheer mental pressure.

“Are you alright?”

He turned and looked down to see Tulipstar. She looked… genuinely concerned, or at least as genuinely as Antstar could convince himself another leader could be.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he said, as reluctance tried to keep his lips locked together.

“…You sounded nervous. I get it. Don’t fear the other leaders; they’re really not as scary as they like to make themselves out to be.” She thought on her words for a moment. “Well, except for Tatteredstar.”

“…What is it to you?” Antstar backed away slowly. Did she want something out of him? Then he doubled back in his mind- what if that sounded too rude, and now she was mad with him?

“Antstar, relax. I was especially close with your mentor and predecessor, Shalestar. We were very good friends, and under our allyship our two Clans were very close. I would like to continue that partnership with you.”

RiverClan had been friendly with WindClan for at least as long as Shalestar and Tulipstar had led them both. Slowly, Antstar let his guard down, correcting his posture so he didn’t look so hunched over.

“I would like to continue it, as well.”

“Great,” she said. She smiled, and Antstar could see how middle age had made her face look bony and her dimples more noticeable. “Besides- I was in a very similar scenario to where you are now, when I became leader.”

Antstar sat up in disbelief. Perhaps he wasn’t alone! Perhaps someone, somewhere out there… someone might just understand! “You… you became leader the same way?”

“Similarly. I mean- there weren’t as many accusations as you had to face from Pigeonstar, that joyless rat, because both my parents were RiverClan and the previous leader’s death wasn’t exactly a private occasion.” She leaned in, her jade eyes wide. “Did you hear about how I came to be leader, Antstar?”

Antstar shook his head.

“I feel you will find it very similar to your situation. The leader before me was a tom named Boarstar.”

Antstar remembered hearing of a Boarstar in nursery tales when he was a kit. Everyone knew him as a leader who had died in a battle he himself had started, but Antstar had not heard much of what he was like beyond that.

“Boarstar was very, very young when he rose to power, younger than you by a few seasons. He was a mean thing. Always picking fights with ThunderClan and WindClan, always on the attack. He was a serial womanizer and deeply narcissistic. Not many of us liked him much. He placed his brother, Oakbelly- who shared every ideal with him- as his deputy, and the two wreaked havoc on RiverClan. Boarstar lost his lives quite quickly because of all the battles he started…”

“So how did he choose you?”

“I honestly don’t think he did. We were in the midst of a battle with ThunderClan in their camp, and Oakbelly was fighting some ThunderClan cat while trying to get to the nursery. As he was taunting them, he made a miscalculation- and the ThunderClan cat shredded his belly open. And now, you know I and ThunderClan do not get along, but…” She smirked.

“And Boarstar?”

“Boarstar was filled with more rage than his namesake as he saw his brother bleed out… So he ran right to Tatteredstar herself and attacked her. She and him went one-on-one. It was a quick battle. I didn’t see much of it, but in the glimpse of his death that I got from the other side of their camp, she was clamping down on his head with her paws, crushing his skull.”

Antstar grimaced.

“The next thing I knew, the medicine cat rushed up to me and asked if I could take the mantle of leadership, telling me it was what Boarstar wanted in his last moments. In hindsight, it was probably the last thing he wanted, and the medicine cat was the one who made the decision. But it was my duty to my Clan, and so, I became leader. I cannot say the road of leadership has been an easy one, or a gentle one. But I want to be the cat for you who I wished was there for me.”

Antstar stepped towards her. “You mean, you’re going to help me?”

“I can’t lead for you, Antstar. Only you know your people. But I will be here as your mentor in leadership. Our Clans will be close. Feel free to ask me if you need help, and I will do my best to be there. It’s what Shalestar would have wanted.”

Antstar’s shoulders felt lighter. Someone out there was on his side!

“Trufflepelt, organize RiverClan so we can leave.” A tall, gaunt cinnamon tabby tom, twice the height of his leader, stood at the end of the hollow as the trademark plump bodies and shimmering pelts of RiverClan surrounded him. Pebblesky, RiverClan’s medicine cat, receded into the crowd, leaving Whitetooth and Marblepaw alone. They disappeared into the forests, southward; towards the faint smell of freshwater that beckoned from their territory.

Antstar stood alone on the rock for a moment. It was smooth, cold; almost calming now that the other Clans had left. He looked above and saw the leaves of the great oaks shiver above him; and a sky full of stars, who all blinked and winked as they stared upon him.

He heard pawsteps behind him, and turned to see the familiar face of Whitetooth, staring him in that inquisitive way they always did. “Are you alright, my leader?”

“…Yeah.” Antstar didn’t break eye contact as he stared at the stars above him.

“...You’ll get used to it,” Whitetooth added.

“I know.”

And then, after a further moment, Antstar left the Great Rock, where Russetfoot was already organizing WindClan to go home. Whitetooth followed, and then Marblepaw, and away they went, into the night.

 “He did terribly,” said Sparkthistle dismissively as soon as the Gathering group got back.

“It couldn’t be that bad,” said Houndnose, a tortoiseshell tabby-and-white permaqueen, who emerged from the nursery with two of Cherrycloud’s kits clamping themselves onto her fur like a pair of bread clips.

“Oh, he made the biggest ass of himself- which is saying something because Pigeonstar was there.” The ginger molly rolled her eyes. “You really hate to see it. I’m astonished Rainleap hasn’t unearthed himself with all the spinning he must be doing in that grave!”

“Don’t talk that way about my brother!” growled Stripedwing, who was just outside the nursery. The gray tabby molly, who was visibly pregnant, had been inspecting the nursery while the gathering group was gone.

But Sparkthistle simply groaned and sauntered off, as if she was annoyed at Stripedwing for not liking the joke.

Antstar passed by the nursery, and something bit his foot. He looked down to see Brindlekit, a little tortoiseshell, gnawing at his toes. “Got you now, ThunderClan rat!” she squeaked.

“Brindlekit, that’s our leader!” said a ginger tabby tom-kit, panicked- but with a slight edge of authority. But Brindlekit, pugnacious as ever, simply pounced onto her brother, and the two began to wrestle. Eventually, Cherrycloud- her ginger coat near identical to the one of the little tom-kit- pried them apart. “Brindlekit, be nice to Antstar. Rosekit, it’s my job to parent her, not you.”

“Antstar! Antstar!” cried another ginger kit, who pushed her way out of the nursery between Houndnose and Cherrycloud. “Didja see Tatteredstar?”

“Is she really the size of a dog? That’s’ what Amberkit told me!” added a tiny solid black tom next to her. “…She’s big. Definitely one of the biggest cats I’ve seen. But not that big.”

The black tom-kit looked smugly at Amberkit, who seemed flustered that her descriptions weren’t accurate. But they had more questions to ask.

“Do the RiverClan cats really smell like fish?” “I heard ShadowClan eats frogs!” “Can Tatteredstar really kill a rat just by looking at them?” “Is the RiverClan medicine cat really secretly from ThunderClan?”

Antstar felt bombarded, but he still tried to answer each question. “They kind of do… they do eat frogs, but they seem fine with it… I don’t know, but she is scary… She is, and it’s not much of a secret, both Clans agreed to it…”

Cherrycloud gave a motion to the two kits, and they silenced themselves. “I’m sorry if they’re being a bother to you, Antstar,” she said apologetically.

“Oh, it’s no bother,” Antstar said. “They’re the next generation of warriors, after all.”

“Patchkit, would you like to say hi?” Cherrycloud asked to a little tortoiseshell, similar in shape and appearance to Brindlekit, who clung next to her. Patchkit gave Antstar a small glance and then buried herself further into her mother’s fur.

“She’s very shy and anxious,” Cherrycloud said. “We hope she’ll step out of her shell a little more soon.”

Antstar recalled he had been a similar way, as a kit. He recalled the permaqueen who had nursed him- a kind, pleasant molly who had passed away a few seasons ago from a wound infection- had a conversation with him about how he was then.

“You were a shy little thing. Very quiet, very meek. But when we were alone, you’d do these little tricks- kneading the ground, cuddling up to clumps of moss and cotton. It was cute, but… it was weird. It was like you were putting on a show for approval. And maybe it was coincidence- but sometimes it felt like you knew what you were trying to do.”

Antstar had thought about that a lot, since he had became leader.

“Oh,” Cherrycloud added, “and I’m sorry for how my sister, Sparkthistle, has been acting recently. We don’t talk much anymore. I will never understand why she has such a bug up her tail about everything... She should mellow down soon, I hope.”

She picked up Patchkit and went back into the nursery, with Houndnose alongside her and her other kits soon following. Antstar soon found himself alone again outside the nursery, the pale moon giving everything a glow. He saw Sparkthistle from across the clearing. The ginger tabby, her teeth in a permanent scowl, made brief eye contact with him before turning away into the warriors’ den.

Antstar worried. What if they began to believe her? What if she’s not an outlier- but an early critic? What if she turns the Clan on him? What if-

Something white caught his eye, and he turned to see Whitetooth, watching him from the edge of the medicine cat on the far side of camp.

He couldn’t fully read their face, but they had the glint in their eye of someone with an answer.

[sortasirius]

Shadow in the Mirror

AN: *SPOILERS FOR 1X02 OF FATWS*, Ah so the Stucky emotions really punched me in the gut after episode 2.  Curse Seb Stan and his incredible acting 

Words: 1180

Pairing: Steve/Bucky

On AO3 here

“You didn’t have to walk me here, Buck, I don’t need a chaperone,” Steve sounds testy as they make their way to the move theater in Park Slope, hands in their pockets and leaning against the brutal January wind.

“Come on, someone has to make sure you look presentable for this girl,” Bucky slaps Steve genially on the back, placing his most trusted smile firmly in place, trying to look convincing enough that it won’t alert Steve’s suspicions, “Where’d you meet her anyway?”

“The library,” Steve rubs the back of his neck in that way that lets Bucky know he’s embarrassed, “Her name is Elizabeth.  She’s going to school at NYU, was researching a paper.  She’s nice, she doesn’t look at me the way some of your setups have.”

That makes Bucky’s throat tighten.

“It’ll go great, she’ll love you,” Bucky brushes past his comment easily, as though it wasn’t said at all, “You got enough to pay for her ticket?  I can spot you if-”

“I got it,” Steve shifts uncomfortably as they wait to cross the street, staring at the glittering lights of the theater down the block, “I hope we don’t run out of things to talk about.”

“If she’s a bookworm like you, you probably won’t,” Bucky grins at him, “Just ask her about that new one you gave me, the Hemingway one.”

“For Whom the Bell Tolls?  That came out three months ago.”

“So?  That’s new.”

Steve sighs heavily, looking for all the world like he was eighty years old, hunched against the cold.  Bucky shouldn’t have let him go out tonight, he was bound to get an asthma flareup and be stuck in bed with pneumonia for weeks again.  Bucky shuddered at the memory of having to carry him to the hospital when they were fifteen when he started coughing so hard he couldn’t catch his breath.  Bucky had been sure he had caught consumption, it made his blood run cold just thinking about it.  Steve had insisted he was fine for tonight, but Bucky was not about to let him trek halfway across Brooklyn in the bitter cold by himself.

As they approach the bright lights of the marquee, Bucky finds himself with a pit in his stomach.  He didn’t know who was more nervous for this date: him or Steve.

“That’s her,” Steve whispers, the relief palpable in his voice, pointing surreptitiously at a pretty girl in a deep red coat, waiting at the ticket booth, “Thanks for walking with me, Buck, I’ll see you at home.”

“I may see something myself,” Bucky was not about to let Steve walk home alone either.  Steve, evidently, picks up on his plan and rolls his eyes.

“Please Buck, I really don’t need a chaperone, I’ll be fine.”

“You act like you don’t want me around.”

Steve laughs at that, touching his shoulder lightly.

“I always want you around, just maybe not while I’m on a date.  I’ll take a taxi home, would that make you feel better?”

“It would, yeah.”

Steve laughs again, waving at Bucky as he heads towards Elizabeth under the bright lights of the movie theater, leaving Bucky in what felt like a shadow.

“I’ll see you, Buck.”

“Steve-”

Bucky jerks awake, hand outstretched in the darkness of his apartment, reaching out for a Steve that was eighty years in the past.  He sits up, looking around his living room, shifting to lean against the side of his couch.  Just a dream, he reminds himself, trying to do those breathing exercises he had found online a couple of weeks back.

Unbidden, the images of that guy, that stranger wearing a bastardized version of Steve’s uniform, holding Steve’s shield, calling him Bucky with too much biting familiarity comes back into his brain, and Bucky clenches his fists, trying his best not to put a hole through the wall.

He hoped, with every fiber of his being, that Steve hadn’t been wrong about him.  He looked in the mirror and desperately tried to find the man that Steve saw, the man that Steve said was his best friend, the man who Steve had risked everything in his life for.  Nine times out of ten, he couldn’t find him, he would just stare and stare and stare at the face of the Winter Soldier until he couldn’t look into the eyes of a killer anymore.  But sometimes, on the rarest nights, he would look in the mirror and see the slightest shadow of the kid from Brooklyn, the kid who would do anything for his scrawny, brave, selfless best friend.

He decides to test the waters tonight, and walks to the bathroom without turning on any lights, so the sting of their brightness in the bathroom make his eyes water.

He looks at himself in the mirror.  he studies the lines of his face, the scars that have healed and healed over again, the blue of his eyes, the shape of his cheekbones, his nose, his mouth, his jaw.  At first, he sees the Winter Solider, with deadened eyes and a hardened face, but there’s something else there, something behind that mask.

He looks harder.

There he is.  Bucky Barnes, the Bucky Barnes that HYDRA had tried to scrub from existence, the Bucky Barnes that fell off that train car and into the ice below, the Bucky Barnes that cared for people, the Bucky Barnes that cared, above almost everything else, for Steve Rogers.

“Steve,” Bucky sighs, closing his eyes against the bright light of his bathroom fixture, remembering the night from his dream, remembering Steve coming home that night, chilled to the bone, with two cups of coffee for them that he couldn’t afford.  He remembers Steve’s smile when he saw Bucky lighting up their whole apartment, he remembers the way it made him feel like he was being hit with a warm, roaring fire.

“It was okay, not much of a connection there,” he had said, eyes reflecting the lamplight as he stared out the window, clutching his paper cup of bad bodega coffee in his hands.

“You don’t seem too down about it, I’m surprised,” Bucky watched him as he sipped his own bad coffee.

“I don’t know, it’s stupid,” Steve shook his head.

“Probably, but tell me anyway.”

Steve stole a glance at Bucky, almost like he was afraid to say what was on his mind.

“Every girl I go out with...I’m just looking for what I already have with you.”

Bucky swore his heart stopped beating at that moment.  He and Steve had stared at each other for what felt like an eternity.

“Me too,” Bucky had whispered, and he was pretty sure the look on Steve’s face could have lit up the entire Eastern seaboard.

“Bucky...”

He opens his eyes, wrenching himself out of the memory and back into the present, with a new Captain America, without Steve.

He stares again at the mirror, the stranger is back.

“I miss you, Steve,” he whispers to the stranger in the mirror, “I hope you weren’t wrong about me.”

[submissivekillers]

michael myers (og ?? rz?? u choose. up to u), herbert west, n ash williams first kisses w/ their s/o?

drwhat if…. DOUBLE the mikey…. we getting soft tonight my good binches

Michael Myers (OG)

he’s following you

this isn’t out of the ordinary - Michael likes to keep you close, at first to make sure you weren’t going to run to the cops or anything stupid like that and now more for the novelty of someone who isn’t scared shitless of him - but he’s particularly clingy today 

you woke up and he was standing over your bed. you took a shower and he came in to watch your silhouette through the curtain, not leaving until you threatened to turn the detachable showerhead on him. you made breakfast? he was looming over your shoulder. you sat on the couch to read? he was sitting on the other end, masked gaze fixed on you 

you get the idea. the final straw is when you’re grabbing a drink from the fridge and he’s standing behind the door when you close it, nearly making you drop the damn bottle you’re so startled

you try and take a moment to breathe - try being the operative word, because as soon as you put your things on the counter and turn to shoot him A Look one heavy hand settles over your eyes, broad enough to cover pretty much the entire upper half of your head, and you freeze. you don’t think he could straight up crush your skull with his bare hands, but it’s Michael so you’re not going to risk it? and - 

he’s kissing you

his lips are a little cool, but surprisingly soft, lingering on yours for only a moment before it’s over. you’re not even really sure it was a kiss at all until his hand lifts from your face and you see him readjust his mask, tugging it down to hide a full mouth and strong jaw 

he leaves abruptly, but you call after him that next time he should just ask instead of being weird about it (spoiler alert: next time he’s still weird about it) 

Michael Myers (RZ)

you’re in a bad way

i’m not talking mildly upset because of a rough day, or sniffling a little because of what happened in that book you’ve been skimming - you’re full-on sobbing, hiccuping for breath, folded into a crumpled ball on your couch 

you’re so out of it that it actually takes you a moment to register Michael’s hulking shape filling your doorway, head tilted to the side (normal) and body language distinctly worried (less normal.) now that you think of it, this is probably the first time he’s seen you cry

he comes to his knees before you when you call him, tall enough that he still has a couple inches on you. you try and give an abridged version of your troubles through your blubbering, pausing often to sniffle and scrub furiously at your red eyes. it’s after one such halt, lowering your hands and blinking away a fresh wave of tears, that you notice his mask has been pushed up, the realization cutting off your words like a needle lifting from a record

he tentatively cups your cheek, angling your head so he can press a kiss to the corner of your eye, tracing the sheen of tear tracks to lay his lips on the hollow of your cheekbone, the angle of your jaw

by the time he finally kisses you for real, your tears have dried, surprise and a slowly-growing warmth replacing your desolation. his stubble scrapes pleasantly over your skin and you sigh, the sound morphing into a startled moan when he slips his tongue in your mouth 

Michael pulls back and studies you for a moment, the weight of his gaze evident despite the odd angle of his mask. apparently pleased by the fact that you’ve stopped crying, he grunts, shifts the mask back into place, and flops onto the sofa 

you let him pull you close (not that you could really stop him) and cradle you against his chest, heartbeat steady under your ear. yours still races, the implications of your serial killer sort-of roommate kissing you starting to sink in - but he’s warm and solid beneath you, and it’s much easier to just give in

Herbert West

your lab partner and maybe-boyfriend is legitimately one of the smartest people you’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing

he is also a fucking dumbass

you are thinking this as you duck to avoid the swipe of a very pissed off corpse, retaliating with a swing of your baseball bat into its side that only seems to make it angrier. Herbert grabs your arm and tugs you back, pulling you into an alcove and slamming the door in the reanimated’s face before leaving your side so he can dig through one of the many boxes scattered throughout

you’re pretty sure this is all going to work out fine - Herbert has a knack for getting out of messy situations like this, and really it’s only one undead - but still, it feels like an appropriate time for you to lean your bat against the wall, take his face in your hands, and kiss him 

he flails, making a startled sound against your mouth. you keep your eyes closed, not wanting to see his expression if you’ve been reading him wrong - but then his hands clamp down on your shoulders, pulling you close desperately as the pair of you kneel on the cool floor

the sound of fists banging against the door (which creaks alarmingly) snaps you out of it, breaking apart with a gasp. you avoid his grasping hands as you rise and retrieve your bat, locking eyes with him still on the floor. he actually pouts at you, the bastard. “kiss me again.” 

“the faster we put that thing down, the faster you get another kiss,” you hiss back. Herbert ponders this for a moment, then nods, beckoning you behind the door and withdrawing a power drill from the box with a smile that is way too giddy given the circumstances

what an asshole. you’re pretty sure you’re in love with him 

Ash Williams 

of course it happens in the Delta

you’re pulled over somewhere, bellies full of greasy diner food (that you paid for, but hey, the man deserves a good meal.) maybe you’re both kinda buzzed, but it’s pleasant, just enough to lower your inhibitions a couple notches

you’re both sitting back, seats reclined. you’re rambling about something inconsequential and suddenly you realize that Ash is looking at you like you hung the moon, soft and warm with a tender little smile at the edges of his mouth. he catches you gawking at him and clears his throat, looking away and raking a hand through his hair in an attempt to keep his cool

and you can’t have that, not when the two of you have been dancing around this weird, fragile flirtation for months now, so it’s the easiest thing in the world to seat yourself in his lap and kiss him 

it’s a little awkward - you’ve got one knee braced on the center console and the steering wheel’s pressing into your back - but the immediate moan makes the discomfort worth it 

Ash holds you flush against him, flesh hand settling on your hip and the other sinking into your hair. his grip is tight but he’s happy to let you take the lead, opening to you when you nip gently at his bottom lip and whining into your mouth. it’s very little time at all before you can feel how hard he is against your thigh

you break away to breathe, but he doesn’t let you get far, holding you close enough that you can still feel his exhale on your lips. he looks completely wrecked from that one kiss, face flushed and eyes dark with want and warmth

“groovy,” he breathes, hand sliding off your hip to squeeze your ass, and you laugh and kiss him again 

[pictureofsirgalahad]

In God’s Image

“You look so much like your mother,” he says, but you don’t. Your older brother looks more like her than you ever will, but you don’t know that. You don’t remember her face, not her strong jaw or soft eyes, not even the blonde locks your father mumbles about when he’s very drunk. All you remember is worn edges of a photograph and the smell of smoke. Flames licking the corners of a ceiling.

Maybe you look more like her that even your father knows.

You look like him more than anyone else, dark hair and rage behind your irises. The rage that makes him look past you, searching for the woman he lost in your pointed nose and skinny limbs, your bitten nails and your brother’s clothes.

But you’re just scraped knees and crooked teeth, just ruddy skin and tangled hair. You don’t look like your mother. Still you become her.

You find a ring in the bottom of your father’s bag. It’s small, dainty, and silver. It’s too big for your ten-year-old hands but it’s pretty, so you wear it on your thumb. Your father’s face screws up when he sees you, and you think he is about to yell, but instead he cups your face with his hand and tells you that you look beautiful, and you feel like you could drown in it.

You cook and you clean and you stitch up your brother, steady hands that are eighteen years too young, and it is not enough, but still you try. For sometimes you’ll do something just right and your father will smile, and that is what you are for. When your family is reckless you pick up the pieces, and you spend so much time alone that you have plenty of time to glue them back together.  

You are twelve and your father comes home smelling like whiskey. Your homework is finished with Dean's help, and now he’s asleep on the bed, his own work incomplete. You try to write his paper for him as quietly as possible, so he cannot protest. The door slams open and suddenly you are alert, reaching for the gun leaning against the table, but it’s only your father, towering and loud.

You don’t want him to wake your brother. You know it’s been a while since he’s slept through the night, your nightmares have been coming more often now, and he is always there to rock you back to sleep. You guide your father to the bed, lying him on his side like you always do. You get him a glass of water and take his boots off, quiet and gentle like you know he wants.

“Mary?” He says to you, unfocused eyes full of drunken confusion. You say nothing. He falls asleep. That night in the cold January air you salt and burn the ring on the sidewalk outside your motel room, because you know now that you must be haunted.

The next morning your brother braids your hair. It is uneven, and messy, but it doesn’t hang in waves around your shoulders anymore, and that is all you need. You scream at your father to take you with him, you know how to shoot a gun and you can run faster than either of them. He tells you no, and that's final, and he looks at you with hate in his eyes.

When you hiss at him with biting words or beg to stay in one place or run away, always run away, you are taking her image and twisting it, tearing it, destroying it. You are a murderer.

You are Mary, and you are her killer, you are the thing that pinned her to the ceiling and you are the only thing that’s left of her. You are many things, but you are not his daughter. He has no daughter. You are a china teacup that must be kept in a chest, but there is arsenic on your rim and a chip in your handle, and your father hates you.

Every night you pray. You’re unclean, the Virgin Mary crumbled on the floor of an abandoned pulpit, and the demons and the soothsayers all have something to say about you. And your father ignored it with his thumb on your cheekbone, but you are just too monstrous to pretend anymore. So you pray for redemption in the eyes of God, for you know it’s too late for you on earth.

You are fifteen and almost six feet tall and you meet a girl in a small town. Her daddy is a pastor who hits her on every day but Sunday, and she shows up at your door at midnight, cheeks wet with tears. She asks if you want to go somewhere and you want to run away with her, somewhere far away from the original sin, but you take her to the corner store instead, and buy her a soda with the last of the money your brother left, and you look up at the stars. She kisses you under the cover of night and lays her head upon your shoulder. And even as you're gone the next morning, the ghost of her fingertips tracing your knuckles will stay with you for the next hundred miles.

You are eighteen and taller than your father. Your brother thinks it’s funny, tries to ruffle your hair despite barely being able to reach it. Your father thinks it’s disgusting. Girls shouldn’t be so tall. You hold your shoulders high. You tell him that you’re going to college and he hits you. Tells you that he can’t believe you could ever be so ungrateful. They’re doing this for you. No, you tell him. They’re doing this for Mary. And you are not Mary.

Your brother cries. You walk out that door and you’re never coming back.

You are Sam and you are at school and you are not normal. You are big and poor and you have knife collection. People whisper behind your back, and you hunch your shoulders, trying to be as invisible as possible. You think you should cut your hair. How else to become a new person than by taking scissors to your braids in a dorm room bathroom. How else to distance yourself from the image of your mother.

But you stand over the sink with the blade in your hand, and you take one last look at yourself, and you stop. You dig through your bag and pull out your faded photograph of Mary, and you don't recognize her.

You don’t look like your mother. You never have. You put down the scissors and unbraid your hair, working your fingers through the dark waves. It’s pretty. Your hair is pretty. And here, far away from your father and his nostalgic smile, you can be pretty all on your own.

[mementomori-demimonde]

Hidden Scars

I - II - III - IV - V - VI - VII - VIII - IX - X

Chapter 11.1 

YOU CHOOSE TO STAY IN

You keep staring at your foot trapped in the crack of the door. Suddenly, the promise you’ve made a while ago rings in your head: you swore you wouldn’t leave, that you would stay, and the scars on your left shoulder are a token for your obedience, your willingness to follow her instructions.

After all, you really don’t want to find out what the punishment would be - you’ve never really broken a promise before, but you imagine the consequences won’t be pleasant - also this might be another test. You wonder if you’ve considered, even for a moment, that she’s just seized the opportunity to put on a show and see your reaction? Perhaps she wanted you to catch the door with your foot, perhaps she’s studying your movements from a secret camera on her phone, it wouldn’t be the first time.

You imagine her coming back in a few hours top, a box of cupcakes in her hand as she grins, praising you and acting like nothing really important has happened, carrying on with your ‘normal’ lives like any other day, making you forget about the event as well, putting onto it the hazy veil of a dream until you start to question if it was really one or not.

You draw a shaky breath and, praying with all your might that you’re making the right decision, you withdraw your foot and let the door slide close, locking itself with a soft click .

Miranda doesn’t come back in a few hours.

Miranda doesn’t come back in the night.

Miranda doesn’t come back in the morning, nor the following day.

Miranda doesn’t come back for a week, nor after then days, or twenty.

Miranda simply doesn’t come back and you’re fearing the worst.

You’ve started tormenting yourself after a few days, the guilt eating you alive from the inside, because if only you’d gone after her, perhaps things would be different, now.

What if that danger caught her? What if you could’ve helped her? What if it’s too late? How can you move on, now, that your life before Miranda has been completely erased, up to the point that you’re wondering if you’re even able to function without her?

After the third week locked inside an apartment with very little distraction, you can barely discern day and night. You sometimes find yourself doing push-ups that are meant for the morning in the evening, you’re spinning your knife while munching on some energy bars that are supposed to be your dinner, and graze almost affectionately at in while you shower, mesmerized by the little droplets of blood that get suckled into the drain when you press the blade into your hand or prick your thigh.

Miranda is the only thought that stays in your mind. You wonder when you’ve eaten last time when your stomach grumbles, but you refuse to get up from your cocoon of blankets until the urge to relieve yourself is unbearable and you drag yourself to the bathroom.

More than once, you’ve contemplated the idea of simply going out and restarting a life on your own. But that would mean forgetting about Miranda… and you don’t want that.

You miss her.

The mere thought of her being in danger because of you, or her being dead, dumped into a canal because you made her flee, has your stomach twist.

You would make time go back and go after her if only you could. You would go out and look for her if you only knew where to start. However, Miranda has always been a great question mark: you don’t even know for certain what is her job, if she’s really an assassin or a spy for that matter, let alone the enemies she has so stubbornly kept secret all this time. What are you going to do? Wander dark alleys at night hoping some creepy guy has some information about a possible killer named Miranda? It’s absurd.

You have no other option than to wait, and hope - and pray - she’s not dead. After all, Miranda is strong, she’s clever, she’s mean when she has to, she knows very little limits- she can do it, she can make it, she can come back. Home, to you.

The door remains closed for another couple of days.

You’re laying on the carpet, the half bottle of liquor next to you it’s opened just to smell the intoxicating scent of alcohol and trigger memories of her. You’re spinning the knife around without looking, hissing when the sharp blade cuts through the skin of your palm, but you don’t care for the pain.

Instead, the noise of the keys rattling on the other side of the closed-door has you shot your eyes open in alertness, and you lift your head from the floor.

The lock clicks, and you’re suddenly aware of yourself, as if brought back to life, when the door cracks open. You spot a familiar lather coat poking in before her.

Miranda, all in black like always, slips inside with a shuddering sigh. She spins quickly on her heels, giving her back, and pushes the door closed with her hand, letting it rest on the wooden surface.

“Miranda?” You call, your voice hoarse for the prolonged inactivity - or when was the last time you drank something?

Slowly, you push yourself up, wondering, for a moment, if you’re not dreaming. After all, you did imagine her the other day, after forgetting about eating for far too long, but she revealed herself to be just an illusion.

This time, however, it isn’t. You can feel it in your bones that she’s real.

“You didn’t come after me.” She murmurs.

She’s still giving you her back, she’s distant, and yet her words hurt like stabs. You can’t see her face, but her eyes are carved in your brain - every move, every light, every twitch, every hidden emotion.

It’s been weeks, but you still remember them after thinking about her for hours, all day, every day, and you know the brightness in them is opaque now, her iris glassy for some tears she would try to hide, in any other circumstance.

Not now, though.

She doesn’t hide the quiver in her voice either, merely clears her throat.

“Good girl, not breaking your promises.” She chuffs out a chuckle, but you can hear the disappointment there. “So obedient, even when-”

She trails off and you swallow, her voice, your promises, swirling around your head and blending into a tormenting tune.

“You wanted me to come after you?” You wonder, brow pinched as you stand up, rubbing your hands together to get rid of some inexistent dust. The irony of it all as you puzzled: she’s spent months trying to get you to listen to her, reminding you to keep your promises, and now she’s telling you that you were allowed, after all, to break the most important one: not leaving.

You hear a dull thud when Miranda rests her forehead against the door.

“It doesn’t matter now.” She mumbles, and she sounds so tired, so broken that your first thought is to rush to her and pull her down to the couch, or help her to bed, strip her of her clothes to let her rest while you boil the water for the tea and your life returns to have a purpose.

You’ve taken barely a couple of steps when she turns over, and you gasp, stopping dead in your tracks.

Miranda’s face is all bruised. Her lip is split in the middle, there’s a faint dark halo under her left eyes and scratch marks on the cheekbone, her neck is marked by a crossed reddish lines, and she’s keeping her left arm clutched to her chest in a such awkward angle, you’d bet her shoulder is dislocated.

You see your own fear and confusion, and guilt reflected into her eyes and there’s nothing you can do to make either of those go away.

“Miranda- what happened to you?” You breathe out with a terrified wheeze, wondering if you really could’ve prevented all this if you’d just disobeyed, broken a promise, and chased after her after you told her you loved her.

Her silence makes your heart thrum in your chest, you try to take a step closer to her, but once again, you stop.

“We’ve got no time.” She murmurs, pressing her lips together, seemingly unbothered by the wound on her mouth, smeared with clotted blood. “They’re coming to get you,” she says, her tone is urgent when she sighs, “to punish me.”

You would ask for more information about who is going to assault the two of you in her apartment any time now, but you already know you’d get no answer, not to mention that you’re probably in immediate danger already.

You swallow, shaking your head, your dominant hand already reaching for the dagger that you keep strapped to your leg - you kept it there all those days because the idea of having it on you, as she showed you, as she told you to do, gave you comfort.

“We can take them.” You blurt out, your brow pinching. “Together, we can do it- please, you trained me for this-”

Miranda shakes her head. She’s smiling, but you can taste all the bitterness and the sadness that lay beneath it.

“No, this was a mistake from the beginning.” She murmurs, her voice thicker than usual, soft and sharp at the same time. “I knew you were different and I kept you anyway… or maybe because of it, I don’t know.” She’s leaning heavily against the door now, her sane hand rummaging into her pocket without a real purpose. “I was arrogant and selfish and you’ll pay for it. I’ll pay for it, we’ll both-”

In a few strides, she’s in front of you, the immense distance between you, suddenly gone. You gaze into those blue eyes you missed so much and find the halo of unshed tears there. The closeness of her wounds makes you wince in sympathy. You can feel her hot breath crashing onto your mouth.

You would like to touch her face, but you fear being rejected. There are still so many unresolved issues between you that everything is difficult and the incoming peril makes it even more complicated.

To your surprise, however, it’s Miranda that touches your face, instead. Her hand comes warm against your cheek, the thumb stroking lightly over the seam of your lips. You would talk, but you can’t, too caught in that moment.

“Know that I’m doing this because you make us weak-” She whispers, but the accusation in her voice is unmatched by the velvet in her voice. “And also because I-” Her breath hitches, your heart skips a beat when she closes her eyes and exhales. “I won’t let them have you, m’eudail, no matter what it costs.”

She’s kissing you now, and it’s desperate: it doesn’t taste of hope, it doesn’t taste of homecoming; it has the coppery taste of blood from her split lip with the bitter undertones of goodbyes. It scares you.

“I’m sorry.” Miranda whispers, parting from you.

Without tearing her eyes off of you, she walks backward toward the kitchen.  She pulls out from the pocket the hand you thought was rummaging purposelessly and reaches under the table.

You know what she keeps there, after all, you helped her with the tape that keeps the gun strapped below the marble.

You jerk when you hear the harsh ripping sound.

You swallow nothing when she walks back to you.

The metal is cold on your forehead when Miranda places it there.

You close your eyes when she rests her index finger on the trigger and pulls.

[notgonnarememberthis]

find your way (back to me) - chapter six

Happy New Year!! Hope y’all are starting off the new year with health and safety for you and your families. Less than 2 weeks away from season 2 and I’m so fucking excited/anxious. Weird note, this chapter is actually the first thing I wrote for the entire story. I had the first part stuck in my head for a little over a month and threw out the concept to my best friend Em. They encouraged me to build the story and so far I’ve been so pleased with it and the reactions y’all have given. Thank you so much for reading and commenting. It really means the world to me.

Three days wears on the psyche, Gil notes in yet another confrontation report. It’d been three days since they’d found the car with Jessica’s phone inside and no sign of her except for her blood on the back window. Malcolm was quickly unraveling, it’s not hard to see. He’d slammed a reporter up against a wall for even suggesting that maybe the world was better off with another Whitly gone. With him visiting Martin the reporter got too close. It didn’t take much more for Malcolm to throw a punch.

He has two of his best cops tailing her children, taking much needed focus away. JT took on Ainsley almost immediately, after her snap with Endicott it’d become an unspoken agreement that she be kept an eye on. He has to bury his feelings every time he sees Malcolm’s hand shake uncontrollably, or when Ainsley comes back from the bathroom with her makeup absolutely perfect but her eyes still red and puffy from the tears she shed in private. It takes all of his power not to go to them and hold them close to his chest.

Every part of him aches.

Two bodies dropped since Jessica’s disappearance. Both had gunshot wounds to the back of the head. Malcolm had made the connection with the information from Martin, thank god. It didn’t take much more to connect the dots after that. They’re lucky Colette even considered it, but they were all desperate. Their time frame was 48 hours. They’re now at 56.

God, where is she?

“Oh my god!” He’s on immediate alert when he hears Ainsley’s scream followed by shouts of other officers. With his hand on his gun he races to where he’d left her and Malcolm earlier.

The room is in absolute chaos, JT is barely holding back Ainsley, her face red while she screams in protest. Several officers have their weapons drawn, Dani included. In the center of it all Malcolm stands with his hands extended, as if reaching for something.

And then he sees her. Her hair is disheveled; dirt and blood are smeared across her face. She’s barefoot, she likely lost her heels long ago. Her once white blouse is also caked in muck and grime. There’s a cloth wrapped around her thigh and one hand is cradling her side. Most startling, though, in her other hand is a knife stained crimson.

“Where is he?” She shouts, her eyes are wild. Gil’s not all that certain she even knows where she is.

“Mom, it’s me.” Malcolm steps a little closer.

“Bright, stand down.” Dani’s voice is a warning.

“It’s ok. She’s not gonna hurt me.” He breathes out slowly, as if trying to calm the entire room at once. “Give me the knife and I’ll find Gil for you. Okay?”

“No!” She springs back and the shouts erupt again.

“Lower your weapons.” Gil barks above the noise. All eyes turn to him, even Jessica’s. They’re reluctant but they obey.

“Mom.” Malcolm steps closer again, drawing her attention back to him. Her face crumples, truly seeing him now for the first time.

“Malcolm.” She sobs, the knife clattering to the floor. She pulls him into a tight hug, her voice barely carrying, “You’re ok. Thank god you’re ok.” 

“I’m ok?” Malcolm chuckles humorlessly. The hug is enough for all of the weight that had been on him to crash all at once. He buries his face into her shoulder his whole frame now shaking with the sorrow he kept so tightly wrapped for days. 

Once the knife is removed and bagged as evidence JT releases Ainsley and she crashes into the hug too. “Ainsley, baby.” Jessica’s voice carries as she recognizes the touch of her daughter. Her crimson stained fingers tangle in the blonde curls. He puts his gun back in his belt allowing himself to relax. He aches to join the embrace. Jessica lifts her chin and meets his eyes feeling his gaze upon them. Her face slackens, and he realizes just how pale she looks.

“Mom?” His heart drops at Ainsley’s tone, the two younger Whitly’s stumbling backwards with sudden weight. He’s on them in seconds, helping to settle Jessica gently onto the ground. The spot where she had been cradling with her free hand was spreading quickly staining her blouse red. In the embrace the cloth the she’d been holding to her fell as well. 

“Call a paramedic.” He orders shucking his coat off to press against the wound. She groans in pain, eyes widening. “I’m sorry, I know.”

“What’s happening?” Malcolm’s arms come around Ainsley, stopping her from coming closer. His hands shake, he’s closed himself off again holding him and his sister together at once. His eyes are glued to his mother, his face as red as Ainsley’s.

“Where is he?” Jessica asks again, this time pleading. His eyes flash to Malcolm, confused. “Please Gil you have to find him. I tried to get him out, I tried.” He shushes her trying to get her to relax.

“Who Jess?” Her fingers grip the front of his sweater, looking around terrified. “Hey, focus. Jess, who do I need to find?” It was too late, however, her eyes slid shut and her body slumped completely against him. He holds his breath until he feels her pulse against his fingertips, strong and steady.

“She just passed out.” Malcolm assures his sister after he likely saw the look of relief cross Gil’s face. The precinct seems to remain still until the paramedics arrive and take her away.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

“We collected three different sources of blood on Ms. Whitly.” Edrisa remarks, though slowly, her eyes on Malcolm the entire time. She’s worried about him being there, they all are. His insistence was to stay. With Jessica in surgery, it would be a few hours before she was released. “Her own, obviously being the first. But the spots on her face and blouse were of our fourth and fifth victims, Tommy Moore and Andrew Rankin. She was likely sitting in front of them when…”

“What about the knife?” Dani asks, she’s biting the inside of her cheek, almost regretting having to ask the question. Malcolm shifts, Gil knows all too well the scene flashing through his memory.

“The blood on the knife was Ms. Whitly’s. With the help of Dr. Garcia, who is the trauma surgeon who I met in the hospital, we determined a loose thread of events.” She looks to Gil and he nods for her to continue. “We are aware of the wreck, Ms. Whitly was showing signs of a concussion upon arrival at the station and in the hospital when she briefly regained consciousness before being sedated. She likely hit her head off the window during the wreck. This is conducive with the bruising and dried blood on her right temple.” Edrisa turns back to the board she was using to present her information swallowing. 

It wasn’t often that she presented the injuries of a victim who survived but after the events of today he’s exercising caution. He makes a brief note to check on her and maybe buy her lunch for her work. He knows none of this is easy but Edrisa is close to Malcolm. She understands him in a way that doesn’t quite make sense to the rest of them. She deserves to know that she’s appreciated.

“Then there’s the gunshot wound. It was likely received two days ago but opened up again when she escaped.” Gil bites the inside of his cheek thinking privately to himself. She’s lucky she didn’t bleed out. The old stab would on his own abdomen aches with the sympathy of that pain. One he wishes she never knew. “Next we have some yellowed bruising across her cheekbone and under her left eye. It suggests that she was hit. With the scrape on her cheek I would assume the perpetrator wore a ring when doing so.” She checks her notes again adjusting the glasses that slid down the bridge of her nose. “The large bruise on her forehead suggests that she hit her attacker. With her wrists and legs bound I would assume she headbutt him.”

Malcolm’s laugh catches them all by surprise. He shouldn’t get as much glee out of the moment as he does; but imagining prim and proper Jessica Whitly slamming her head against her captor is more satisfying than anything. “Sorry.” He mutters muffling a further laugh with his palm.

Edrisa relaxes slightly at that. “Finally we have the wound in her leg. She was stabbed, obviously. But the wound pattern along with some small cuts on her wrist suggest that she pulled it out herself.”

“She saw her opportunity. Her captor left the knife and she cut the ties around her wrists and ankles to escape.” Malcolm nods in agreement with Edrisa’s assessment.

“Holy shit.” JT mutters. “How the hell did she get back here without anyone taking her to the hospital or calling the cops?”

“That we won’t know. The doctors have my mother under sedation, for now. She’s undergoing her second surgery now, she’s severely dehydrated, and was delirious when she woke up in the hospital.”

“Shouldn’t you be with Ainsley?” Dani asks slowly. “Your mom needs you.”

“My mother needs me to find who did this to her before he strikes again.” Malcolm snaps. Dani grits her teeth but nods.

“What about the guy Ms. Whitly was talking about before she lost consciousness?” JT shifts, eyes combing over the file in front of him. “Do we have any idea who it could be?”

“We can only assume it is another missing person. Until she’s coherent enough to talk to us, we won’t know for certainty. Until we find the guys we are looking for I want detail on all of the Whitly’s until further notice. With her reaction earlier we can only assume that Malcolm and Ainsley were the next targets if Jess didn’t participate in what the killers wanted.” He turns to Edrisa, “Thank you Dr. Tanaka. Keep us updated if Dr. Garcia contacts you with any more information.”

“Yes sir.”

“Colette and her team are canvassing the area now. She couldn’t have made it far without being noticed by a concerned stranger. Dani, I want you and JT looking through missing persons. See if there’s any new disappearances that could be our missing man.”

“What do you want me to do?” Malcolm sits up straight, alert.

“We’re going back to the hospital.” He holds up his hand when Malcolm stammers to protest. “Ainsley needs you right now, more than anything. Not to mention once your mother wakes up she’ll need a face she can trust. Something scared her into coming here with a knife. I have a bad feeling.” Malcolm nods in agreement, though he still doesn’t look too pleased with the information.

He can’t shake the feeling in his gut that they’re missing some key information. He only hopes that Jessica will wake and tell them before it is too late.

[alltingfinns]

The Hounds of the Baskerville

Holding a phallic object, splattered with a body fluid and breathing heavily.

“Well that was tedious!”

And as if that was too subtle, he keeps playing with the harpoon even after it and him has been cleaned off and he’s switched to one of his robes.

John taking just two seconds to pretend considering to give in, just to be a little shit.

Also I am pretty sure that John has a secret scrapbook just for pictures of Sherlock in the hat.

Oh look, begging for mercy. Twice.

I just really love this scene, the manic energy of Sherlock and the calm sass of John gives us some of the funniest moments of the entire show. Also Ben needs to do more physical comedy.

Here he mentions a blog entry on perfume identification which plays out in HLV, so I’m a bit disappointed that the blogging on textile tensile strength in TEH didn’t feature in s4. Maybe some shirts get ripped in s5?

It’s so mean, but my favorite bit really is the mocking of the little girl asking for help finding her rabbit.

The wagging from side to side “please please please can you help?”

“Like a fairy!” with accompanying high pitch and hand motions.

Followed by a look from John that suggests he doesn’t think a lack of substance is Sherlock’s present issue.

And then suddenly he’s like “wait this actually does sound better than nothing”

And Cluedo. “It was the only possible solution”

Trivia note: the Swedish name for the game is also Cluedo, except we pronounce each vowel seperately. Clu-e-do.

It’s so domestic how they say “client” together. Apparently there’s a certain way frequent callers would ring the doorbell that differentiates clients.

Sherlock’s mainly looking at Henry looking at the video, don’t think I’ve noticed that before.

John’s irritated already when Sherlock begins listing things he noticed. Maybe he feels it is a bit too similar to when they first met, meaning he might be jealous that Sherlock does it with others or irritated at his past self for being as mesmerized as Henry is.

Sherlock inventing aggressive passive smoking.

Sherlock is so annoyed that Henry keeps thinking he’s in a horror story rather than a detective story.

I wonder what kind of poetry John wrote. He probably tried to use his feelings for Sherlock to simulate the romance his girlfriends wanted, which is why it is extra exasperating that Sherlock found it “funny”. Although that might be because he’d find the poetry mismatched to the girlfriends and/or the emotional investment John showed them.

“Childhood trauma masked by an invented memory. Boring!”

The parallel has been pointed out before but it bears repeating. Even if they hadn’t planned ahead by the time this episode was written, why go ahead and use an already discarded plot device they themselves called boring?

Interestingly the plot of the episode does more or less lead to this being the solution but not quite. The memory was invented and masking the real events, but it wasn’t Henry’s childhood brain doing it (at least not without aid). Might be worth comparing these plots. If only for the meta moment of it wasn’t you who imagined what you saw, someone made you see it. And then they tried to drive you into fear and doubt to keep secrets hidden.

“The vanishing glow-in-the-dark rabbit! NATO is in an uproar.”

That :( face is so funny every time.

Hound is a bit tricky in Swedish as the Swedish word for dog is hund. So the subtitles just go with spökhund. (Ghost dog)

“It’s cold.” John doesn’t even say anything but he still makes Sherlock self conscious.

Wonder why they showed us the therapy session?

John standing by the counter looking at Sherlock just looking very soft.

Doesn’t even complete his denial. And was that a single key, or were two keys just so closely held together? I’ve never been fully sure if they shared a single room or had one each. John’s incomplete denial would suggest separate rooms (it’s okay because they’re not actually a couple).

John showing his detective skills. And for once it won’t play out like the cats in TGG. It’s an important reminder that John is a smart man overshadowed by a genius, instead of the common enough Everyman and/or bumbling oaf that some believe of Watson.

“And the ruddy prisoner” probably the full extent of the subplot from the novel.

“Is yours a snorer?” “Got any crisps?” Pretty high pitch there, John.

There is sort of a running theme of characters waxing poetically in vague spookiness and Sherlock just scoffing at it. Reminder that the novel is a horror story starring a detective outside of his normal trappings.

“We’ll get caught.” “No, we won’t. Well not right away.”

More exact words from John as he pulls rank and activates Sherlock’s military kink.

The timer doesn’t start ticking at the gate but at the building itself, wonder why. Or maybe it has been ticking, but now there’s atten paid to it?

“Enjoy it?” Just something to file away in the John wing of his mind palace.

I halfway expected one of the elevator buttons to be key activated for the really tippy top secret secrets.

I see one monkey has seen Raiders of the Lost Arc. That or it’s still upset that it didn’t get the part.

“Stapleton?” He may have mocked little Kirsty, but he still remembered her name.

“People say there’s no such thing as coincidences. What dull lives they must lead.” But the universe is rarely so lazy? Of course rarely does not mean never, and looking at the forebears website Stapleton is a 1 in 3600 name in Devon. So the only question is if Kirsty listed her whereabouts on the forum. Not in her message but maybe in the profile she made.

The dramatic reveal of BLUEBELL.

Sherlock deducing the inside job while John just repeats “the rabbit?” is as good a summary of the show as anything, honestly.

Mycroft’s exasperated “goodammit, Sherlock!” look is almost too loud for the Diogenes club.

I think I read on tvtropes that the Major’s beard isn’t regulatory. Acceptable breaks of reality for the sake of original reference.

“It wasn’t my hat.” I love how the hat is used as a summary of the artifacts attached to the character. The trappings that come from adaptations and parodies and whatnot. Like Igor, who apparently wasn’t even in the original Universal Horror film but its sequel.

Exactly how does John expect Sherlock to turn off his cheekbones? Also the idea that Sherlock is turning up his collar to “play cool” as they’re leaving Baskerville kind of shows that it’s mainly for John’s benefit. Like his later choices to wear the hat. Sherlock starts off wanting to impress John, and by s3 it is about playing a specific Sherlock Holmes role. And again, John betrays his real thought by mentioning the cheekbones. “Stop being so attractive, dammit!”

“Has she been working on something deadlier than a rabbit?” “To be fair, that is quite a wide field.” Cue the killer rabbit jokes.

John’s awkward “are you... rich?”

In the original story the wealth was far more plot relevant, here it’s just a bit of dialogue fodder.

Not spelling out “in” this time?

Pretty sure those are IKEA mugs.

The plan sounds bad, but it is perfectly sound. They have done as much preliminary research as they can at the moment, and by going all three of them they do stand a decent chance should the beast be real. Of course Sherlock still doubts it’s real, which is the main plot for his character.

With the exception of this episode and episodes of Midsumer Murders I hadn’t really heard fox screams before. Imagine not knowing that’s what it is and just hearing this almost ghostly screech specifically when watching English mystery shows.

John just wandering away from the others without alerting them, and then he’s surprised that Sherlock and Henry has continued on without him. If he has a survival instinct it is in a coma.

Umqra. John knows Morse, which I honestly have found tricky trying to learn.

Taking a break here.

[solitariusdeluna]

Opinion time: Whether or not Coyote Starrk is deserving of his rank as the PRIMERA

Spoiler alert: he’s completely deserving. 

As the title of suggests, this is going to be a very very very long part rant part facts piece about why Coyote Starrk deserves to be the Primera Espada, contrary to what sp many in the fandom think. Brace yourselves, fam. 

So it’s no real surprise that way too many people have taken it upon themselves to question if he was ever worthy of being the first Espada and that’s simply because he’s super underrated and hardly got any screen time except when he duked it out with Kyoraku. 

Let’s begin with the guy himself. I mean he’s not your regular baddie now, is he? And that makes him rather original in the bleach universe tbh. For a “villain” and given his stature, he’s not all that antagonistic. Like at all. Not even a tiny bit. Out of all the characters in bleach, he’s practically the only guy who actively doesn’t give a sh*t or even care about the HUGE battle that he was taking part in. 

And it’s because of that very sentiment that people often mistake him as being lazy and just wanting to get it over with so he can go nap since well, that’s like the only other scene that we saw him in. By design, he’s also quite the understated character and given his position as the first Espada, he’s meant to come off as the underdog. 

Especially when you consider that Barragan is the second Espada. Okay, and we all know that Barragan is supposed to be that ALL POWERFUL RULER OF HUECO MUNDO! We’re supposed to think that Barragan is supposed to be number one then and when it turns out that Starrk actually is, it’s supposed to subvert your expectations as to what makes a powerful character within this army. 

But going back to his design, even if it looks less flashy than most, I think he has the best design among many in the series. He’s definitely quite the looker, i mean look at those cheekbones! And that wavy brown hair and his striking grey-blue eyes and his tall stature. He’s not flashy but he’s definitely handsome. 

He’s also the forgotten Espada, unfortunately. Because despite his position as being numero uno. He really doesn’t show up quite a lot in the Arrancar arc and his fight with Shunsui actually doesn’t take that long either. Not only that, he doesn’t get a volume cover, and he’s also one of the only Espada, it’s only him and Aaroniero that don’t face a single bad guy in the story. 

And this is just one of the few reasons that people seem to think that maybe Starrk didn’t really deserve his position at the top. When compared to Espada like Barragan and Ulquiorra who have very extravagant attacks and abilities, Starrk in comparison comes across as a wee bit plain. 

So when think cero attacks, they’re so over the top and cool, right? But even though Starrk can practically wield his ceros in manner that none of the other Espada or arrancar can, no one seems to notice. I mean he just has to stand there and it just happens, all on its own. No pick up your finger and point like pew pew pew the way Ulquiorra does, or just rage shoot it out of his entire hand as though he’s shoving someone into oblivion the way Grimmjow does. 

As noted by Shunsui, unlike other Arrancar, he can apparently fire a Cero without a "fighting pose", meaning he can fire it without any warning from body gestures. Starrk can do it without any gestures. He can fire it from various points on his body such as his chin or chest and he also charge and fire it rather quickly without any warning, leaving even less time for his target to react. 

Starrk’s got guns. Big guns. and they’re pretty badass too especially when you consider the details on the sides and all. But when you compare them to a skeleton with a crown that can dissolve you to the bone, well... it can pretty much be hard to justify why starrk is numero uno while barragan is number two. 

Now yeah we all heard the age old argument that all over the fandom that Barragan is actually meant to be number one and is only number two because Aizen put him there to insult him and wanted to deflate his big fat ego plenty. I can see that and it might make some sense but it totally and completely isn’t doing Starrk as a character and a fighter any justice.

Now in spite of his relatively short amount of panel and screen time and given that his abilities are not as impressive as some of the other Espada and by impressive you know i mean showy as heck, I’m gonna lay the facts why Starrk is deserving of his rank at the top of the Espada ranks even if he was not the most memorable character ARGUABLY. 

Point#1 Let’s talk reiatsu:

Going off the main canon reason we have to go off the ranking of the Espada is that they are ranked by their reiatsu. Starrk has an abnormally large amount of it compared to almost every other character in the series. His reiatsu was so vast that it killed mountains amounts of hollows and that’s even after he split his power into, an entirely second person, Lilynette. And unlike every single other arrancar and that goes for mister surprise bullshit twist zero espada yammy, Starrk’s zanpaktou is not his power. That was more of a prop for him as wiki states; Sheathing his sword, Starrk, calling Lilynette over, reveals he and Lilynette are one: while other Hollows split their power into their sword and body, they split into two bodies instead, and once they are one again, their full power will be released. 

Now whether it was starrk or lilynette that was the original body -- which is going to be a case of the chicken or the egg type of deal tbh. but my headcanon in this regard would be that their hollow being was a huge collection of souls amassed over time and it existed for ages upon ages. but then starrk and lilynette’s souls seemed to be the strongest out of the whole bunch so basically that’s why it’s them who’s the representative power of that original hollow they were a part of and now with starrk being the stronger one of the two since he’s the older one. 

But getting back to Starrk’s zanpaktou, lilynette is his source of power and basically his zanpaktou. While every other arrancar turned their power into a blade. According to bleach lore, the size of a person’s zanpaktou is relative to their reiatsu. Going off of that, starrk has managed to condense his reiatsu into the smallest form that it could be and that is that of a human child. But also again the two them combined even after being split up, are enough to kill mountains of hollow. That’s how powerful they are. 

special note: when starrk decided to follow aizen, he did it out of his reasoning that, hey i know this guy isn’t going to die because our killer power so yeah, why not? let’s do this. 

Anyhoo, since their reiatsu is absolutely and utterly crushing for any hollow that comes within their proximity. hollows that aren’t particularly powerful but still okay. still. no one else can do that so suck on that, haters! Not even this guy:

the self proclaimed and all powerful king of hueco mundo aka barragan louisenbairn. who just so happened to be sat in a court of hollows, like a whole bunch of them. and yet, none of them were getting killed. none of them. not with his reiatsu alone. so. yeah. 

moving on.

Point#2 Starrk’s battles:

So this is where the real meat of the argument of why he’s deserving of being the primera espada comes in. Putting aside the fact that starrk wasn’t the least bit interested in the whole battle thing and didn’t have the blood lust or duty bound attitude like the rest of the espada -- and that’s because he’s pretty much indifferent to things in the first place. We know that he’s unmotivated which comes across as very lazy to most people aka that whole omg starrk is a fucking lazy bitch thing that most of the people in the fandom go on about...

He’s not lazy. He’s unmotivated. There is a difference. It comes with his nature of being very apathetic and uncaring. I personally like to think that he doesn’t care to exert energy into things that don’t really matter.  But I digress. 

At the start of his fight, starrk is very clearly not even trying and he says so himself a bunch of times. Even though kyoraku was trying to pretty much kill him and get this thing over with, starrk not once retaliates in kind. Which makes this INCREDIBLY UNUSUAL for a bleach fight and villain. And a top tier bleach villain at that, and that’s what makes him interesting. He’s not your regular sort of villain. If one can even call him that really. 

Anyhoo, let’s stop and actually consider the caliber of opponent that starrk is up against. It’s one of the oldest captains of the gotei 13 and a disciple of old man yama-jii himself. So that’s something in itself, okay? 

Let’s take a quick detour though:

And bring back barragan into the picture, mostly because he’s the one who’s supposedly meant to be the primera espada right? (psst, wrong. like really.) Barragan is all about the pizzazz and show and bling bling. I mean look at him, he’s pretty much decked out in the best gold complete with a little crown on his head too. 

Barragan is powerful, there’s no denying that. And he knows it. That’s the contrast between Starrk and him though. He knows his power and his unrelenting about his use of it. Because he wants people to know that he’s strong unlike starrk who just doesn’t give a flying monkey’s arse. And when barragan activates his release form we get a tremendously awesome and stunning display of power in the way in which he manages to reduce Soifon’s hand into nothing but it’s bare bone. That was frightening and it was one of those moments that was meant to stay with you as a observer. Because it oozes the sentiment that, this guy should not be trifled with. 

The difference is however, unlike starrk, barragan is not consistent. Barragan’s fight goes downhill right after that kickass moment of him dissolving soifon’s hand muscles away. and that was the best part of that fight.

detour over. 

Okay, now back to starrk (the one and only and deserving primera).

Starrk in his battle with Kyoraku manages to stay consistent. Something that Barragan failed to do. Barragan is just not on the same level as starrk for a number of reasons.

1. Starrk has a personality that is just not seen among all the other arrancars. He’s cool. He’s calm. And he’s collected. But he’s also incredibly intelligent and ridiculously observant, on a level that we just don’t even see in the series. He was quick enough to observe that Kyoraku was actually ambidextrous despite his trying to hide that as best as he can. He was also able to figure out that Ukitake’s zanpaktou was able to do after seeing it three times in action. 

2. He is strategic. That’s exactly why he was able to figure out how to best beat Rose and Love WHO BY THE WAY WERE ALSO CAPTAIN LEVEL OPPONENTS SO STARRK FOUGHT NOT ONE BUT FOUR CAPTAINS -- Again, suck on that, haters! Ahem, anyhoo. A battle is won not only by force and power but also by strategy. But also in one’s ability to keep a cool head and be quick enough to able to adapt to the situations as they arise. Which starrk was able to do throughout his encounters with those four different captains. 

3. He is not an Urahara/Askin type of character, those guys are more known for being able to continually use their wits and are something of deus ex machina in their own right in that regard. The type of characters who you know are really really powerful but are downplaying it or hiding it so much. 

4. From the start of his battle with kyoraku to the time ukitake (the other discipline of yama-jii and old timer captain of the gotei 13)  turns up, Starrk didn’t take a single hit. He doesn’t get hit, once. And that is just badass, especially given the fact that he was going up against ukitake, kyoraku, rose and love. In his resurreccion, starrk was able to keep a level head and access the situation all while dodging every single attack he was thrown with. And despite kyoraku’s tendency to fight dirty and sneaky. Still, starrk managed to dodge, everything. Starrk’s ability to control the battlefield with his ceros and simultaneously dodge everything these two old and very high level captain class characters throw at him is pretty much nothing short of impressive if you ask me. But wait, there’s more. 

5. Once ukitake and kyoraku are taken out of the fight, starrk goes up against Love and Rose. You know, the hollowified and presumably strengthened tremendously because of that fact captain level guys that were exiled to live in the world of the living. So that’s back to the point I made early which is pretty badass in its own right and NO ONE ELSE HAD TO DEAL WITH MIGHT I ADD! He was dealt with the TOUGHEST fighters around. Clearly. But you know what was cool? Starrk was literally toying with them, the entire time. He did take a hit because of Love when barragan died but it was like him just laying there and being something of a comedic moment and he wasn’t the least bit hurt. He wasn’t even being serious the entire time and then his awesome bomber wolves wiped them out -- even though it’s still highly doubtful he was fully into the fight even then but. that was that. 

Speaking of those awesome bomber wolves;

His resurreccion’s other special ability aside those mad cero shooting skills and he summons his army of spirit wolves and that was his moment to shine pretty much. These wolves decimated Rose and Love with ease and starrk didn’t even have to move from his spot. not once. 

Now if we go back to barragan though, he was pretty much freaking out and got half his skull clearly wiped out of his head when he got hit and he was pretty much losing his mind. But that’s because of his personality and that pompous being he is that ended up holding him back. Compared to starrk who remained in control and completely so, the entire time he fought with all these strong opponents. 

BUT CONVERSELY;

Okay, so he held his own against four captains but then he didn’t fight a bankai and ended up losing to a shikai. When we take that into consideration, well, yeah. that does sound really bad. not gonna lie. Being the first espada in Aizen’s army killed by a shikai.

Except, we have to take into account with everything that was mentioned thus far, Starrk was winning the fight with ease. He was in control of the entire battle from start to finish, hardly took any damage even though he went through kyoraku, ukitake, love and rose. He was always on top of his game throughout and he wasn’t even into the whole fighting thing okay. that’s the main point here. 

He was crushing it. Starrk was winning it. Especially after he wiped out Rose and Love. Until Kyoraku emerged from the shadows and took a stab at him. It was in this battle that we learned more about Kyoraku’s personality when in battle and we find out that he’s pretty much not afraid to be sneaky and low-ball his opponents. And that’s because according to me, he’s pretty much got that mindset that “all is fair in love and war, baby.” 

Kyoraku’s unapologetic and that’s pretty awesome of him. Plus, given that he was up against starrk and he noticed how things were going, he decided to up things and go all out without using his bankai. Which he was actually considering by the way, but Ukitake was all no, man. don’t you dare at him so he didn’t. But this was why Kyoraku decided to literally...

...stab starrk in the back. 

And just end this once and for all. And there was no way starrk could have gotten out of that scenario because it played perfectly into kyoraku’s hands. And even Rose and Love didn’t expect it, because in the world of bleach, it’s just not etiquette to come crashing into someone else’s fight -- which was exactly what Kyoraku does. 

Love and Rose were just superbly outmatched and kyoraku saw an opportunity and he just goes ahead and stabs starrk in the back. And it was that stab that finished it. Game over. 

It takes starrk right out of the game. Because from that moment onwards, starrk’s head just wasn’t in the fight anymore. It was so dirty and he didn’t like and he was supposed to be the bad guy. 

Tut tut, kyoraku. 

Anyhoo, Starrk didn’t want to be there. He didn’t want to fight. He gets a little bit into it and takes out Love and Rose. But when Shunsui stabs him in the back and rattles him. It caused Lilynette to step up and sacrifice herself for his sake but from then on it was just what was the end all for him at that point. He was thrown into an emotional tailspin that shook him to his core, ended his reasoning and that entirety of calmness he had throughout his battle. 

That was seriously heartbreaking to watch too. He lost the other half of his soul and one can only imagine the type of pain that brings about. It weakened his resolve and when your opponent’s resolve to fight is weak, well then, of course you’ll be the victor and that was exactly what happened. 

Shunsui won. But he won dirty. 

But if you consider that he went up against two of the oldest and high level captains and two hollow strengthened captains and still held his own until he was dealt that unfortunate blow, starrk is pretty damn well deserving of his rank as the primera espada. He is not the primera because barragan was slighted by aizen. He’s the primera because he held his own pretty darn well despite not feeling it at all.

 And that’s the end of that, friends. Show respect for starrk. He’s the primera and he deserves it. 

#PROTECTSTARRK2020

[catcodemon]

I had to put my kitty down a few days ago. I was just looking for some Inky comforting Doomguy fluff 😞

i’m so sorry to hear!! :[ i chugged this out as soon as i could. hope it helps, even if just a little bit!! <3

[ao3 link]

He veritably jolts awake as the dream abruptly cuts off, leaving him to panic. His breathing is ragged and uneven; his arms trembling. One hand palms over his heart, feeling it pound wildly beneath his skin. He tries to calm himself, taking deep breaths evenly, but the unnerving fear and terror that linger keep him from doing so.

Slouching over, he holds his head i n his hands miserably. Even here, where he is safe and sound, the horrors of what he has seen still haunt him.

For a split moment, he does panic. He’s alone. Where is Vega?

Instantly, the opportunistic voice in the back of his mind speaks up. Gone, it hisses. He has finally realized how pathetic and monstrous you are. Why would he want a killer in his life? He doesn’t need that; he doesn’t need you.

He tries to counter it with reason. No, Vega is not ‘gone’. He’s likely in the main room researching. No, Vega would not leave him like this. No, Vega does not ‘need’ him, but he wouldn’t leave for that reason.

A feeble sound distracts him from his fretting. He looks down to see Inky trotting over to him, tail held high and curled at the tip. As she approaches, she chirps to him.

He stoops over to pick her up when she is close enough. She goes willingly, turning to putty in his arms. Carefully, he shifts her to cradle her safely. Once she is situated, she leans into his chest and starts a steady purr. The sound soothes him, but the antsy, anxious feelings remain within him.

A walk, he thinks. A walk would help. He rises from the edge of the bed, Inky still in his arms, and heads for the door. It whooshes open as he nears; for once, it seems, Inky is not startled by it. Both he and Vega are well aware that the sudden movements are prone to startling her, but when in company, it appears to not affect her. In some cliche way, he is comforting her as well.

He steps through the doorway silently. A good wander around the Fortress would take his mind off of things.

The Fortress is quiet as he meanders aimlessly through it. Hayden blessedly keeps his mouth shut, for once. The silence and the cool air brushing against his skin help calm him down steadily. Inky’s incessant rumbling is an additional aid he enjoys. 

He finds himself at the grand bay window in the main hall. Outside, the stars glitter as they always have. Asteroids drift by, thankfully missing the area by a wide girth. Were he not so exhausted, he would try to recollect on the names of the stars Vega had taught him prior.

Wordlessly, he slumps to the floor, back against the thick window pane. Inky squirms in his arms restlessly, eventually wriggling herself free to pad around him. His arms cross on his propped-up knees, wrists hanging loosely. His mind still is swarming with apprehension and anxiety, but at least the physical effects have disappeared.

Again, he is distracted. A wet nose nudges his ear, whiskers brushing his face, making him reflexively shake his head and lean away. Inky is not one to be ignored, however, as she persistently follows his retreating. Eventually, he relents, holding still and letting her brush against his cheeks and temples. She does so mirthfully, the purr now tangible where parts of her body lean into his. 

Half-heartedly, he huffs at her, one hand rising to gently nudge the tickling feelings away from his face. Inky easily dodges the slow, uncoordinated attempt, swooping back in to knock her forehead against his. A show of affection? He does not know how purposefully knocking one’s head against another’s would be seen as a display of affection or love, but he takes it at face value. He leans into her, her head pressing even more into his. Soon, she starts swiping her face against his, rubbing her cheeks against his own lean cheekbones and chin. 

An amused sound escapes him, against his best efforts to stay quiet. Inky pauses at the noise, ears pricked, before she returns in full-force, hell-bent on wringing more sounds out of him, it seems. Her forepaws come up to rest on his upper thigh, granting her easier access to his head. A rough tongue runs against his cheek, something he is still working on growing accustomed to from her--the unexpected rasp of her tongue had startled him the first time he felt it, though he has since grown more comfortable with it. 

Inky seems content to ‘groom’ him from this angle, cleaning every inch of his face that she could reach. The sensation lulls him back into a doze, head steadily drooping under her ministrations. 

At a pause in her work, his eyes crack back open. She has since stopped cleaning him, instead calmly gazing at the outside of the Fortress. He follows suit, twisting to face the window properly. The shimmering of the stars and the colors of the space around and between them is comforting to take in. For so long he has seen nothing but charred, scarred wastelands in the wake of the demonic invasions.

He feels himself disconnecting from his body once more, and Inky is once again quick to catch him. She crawls into his lap, staring at him face-to-face. He looks down at her, to which she bunts her head against his again. Satisfied that she has caught his attention again, she untangles herself from his legs and stands patiently. When he does not catch on, she pads towards the door to the bedroom, turning once more to wait for him. 

Gingerly, he rises, joints protesting at the movement after so long spent sitting. She waits for him calmly, green eyes watching his fumbling movements. When he is standing once more, she pads over to rub against the outside of his calves, tail curling happily at the tip to twist around his knees.

He stumbles back to the room, Inky thankfully untangling herself from his legs while he walks. She leads him back, though pausing to let his movements alert the sensors to open the door. Inside, he hardly makes it back to the bed before collapsing in a heap.

As predicted, Inky is quickly there herself. She hops up nimbly to sit next to him as he gets comfortable on the blankets, then takes up her place in the crook of his arm. His hand blindly seeks her out, coming to rest when his fingers tangle in thick, dark fur. He can feel the rumbling starting up again, easing him further into a daze.

She certainly has to know more than she lets on, he thinks as his eyelids droop shut. Far too intuitive than an average cat. Perhaps she is some sort of guardian angel.

[lyssismagical]

Take my heart and I'll restart; please just let me fall apart

Whumptober Day Seventeen - “Stay With Me”

Read on AO3

Crimson red stains his trembling hands.

Far away, he can hear sirens, blaring and almost as desperate as Peter had sounded before the gunshot had gone off.

A young girl, probably only a few years older, is cradled in his lap, blood soaking through her white blouse, blossoming across the white canvas like paint. Her face has long since gone pale, eyes closed.

He knows he’ll be arrested on the spot. He’s wearing his suit but his mask is somewhere far to his left and he doesn’t bother reaching for it. His gloves are gone, leaving him recognizable. He’s the one who’s covered in blood, her blood. They’ll think he did this.

Mouth tasting like salt from the never ending tears, he presses a kiss to her forehead like Tony would’ve if Peter were the one bleeding out on the unforgiving cold of the pavement.

“Stay with me,” he begs, keeping his hands carefully applying pressure to her bullet wound. If it were him, he would’ve been fine. It would’ve been easy. He would’ve swung to the tower despite Karen’s advisory and gotten Tony and Bruce to patch him up, and he would’ve been fine by the next morning.

But this girl? This young girl who was caught in the crossfire, might not be. She might not make it through the next few hours let alone forever.

“Please, god, please,” he cries, sliding his knees up to cradle her more carefully against his chest. “I can’t- Please, fuck, I can’t. Stay with me, shit- Just a few more minutes.”

He knows her name is Emily and she can’t be older than seventeen. Her little nametag, probably from a workplace is stained with her blood, but it’s got a little smiley face beside her cursive name.

The squeal of tires indicates the arrival of the emergency services, paramedics, ambulances, police, anyone they deemed necessary for a panicked call from a teenage boy who couldn’t stop crying because of a dying girl.

“Help her, please,” he begs, immediately giving her up to the hands of the paramedics. She’s gently taken away from him and he can’t see her anymore through his tears, far away he can hear doctors shouting numbers that don’t make sense to him.

Someone must recognize the blotted insignia on his chest, the mask and gloves discarded, because the next thing he knows is there’s a pair of cold cuffs tightening around his wrists.

He doesn’t care, can’t make himself care. Guilt is crashing into him like a tidal wave, sucking him underwater. His breath hitches and he lets out a broken sob, letting the police officers uncaringly jerk him to his feet. They don’t care about his tripping feet or wobbling knees or clumsy hands, they just shove him gracelessly into the back of one of the cars.

The window’s cold under his head (he doesn’t look at the blood that smears on the glass, refuses to think about it. Can’t look at his hands or the suit. He can’t.) and the colors blur through his crying eyes like he really is underwater.

The ride to the station is silent and they’re just as rough when they pull him out of the car and into the building. They dump in the holding cell before one of the officers pulls up a chair on the other side of the bars.

“Guess we finally caught you, Spider,” the man says. He pulls out a pack of cigarettes from his chest pocket, selecting one and lighting it. He takes a long draw before blowing it out into Peter’s face. “You have any identification?”

Peter shakes his head. He doesn’t want to out his identity to them. He can’t just straight up say that he’s Peter Parker. Who knows how quickly that would hit the news.

“The longer you’re quiet for,” one of the other men pipes up from the front desk. He’s got his clunky boots propped up on the desk and already has a cigarette dangling from his lips. “The longer we have to keep you here for.”

“Don’t I get a phone call?” Peter asks. He needs to call Tony. He needs to go home. He needs to wash the blood away. He thinks he might be in shock. He can’t stop shaking.

The man across from him laughs like Peter told the funniest joke in the world.

“I’ll break it down for you, bitch” he says, “We’ve been trying to track you for years and we finally get our hands on you. You think we’ll just let you go crying back to daddy? No, I don’t think so. You’re going to sit right where you are until we can get you thrown in jail for the rest of your long life. Should’ve thought twice before evading the law, hm?”

Peter wants to argue, he does, he knows he’s doing good out there, but after what just happened… Maybe there right. He’s the reason Emily is dying in a hospital somewhere alone. He’s the reason she won’t be able to live out the rest of her life, so why should he be allowed to live his?

He rests his head against the cold concrete wall behind him, closes his eyes, and tries not to think about the blood sticking his suit to his skin.

*

A gunshot.

A scream.

“Stay with me.”

He jerks awake. He needs out. He needs Tony. The blood is dry, caking his hands and suit and he can feel it all the way up to his hair.

A ticking clock, a snore.

The only person in the pale green police station is the man at the front desk, feet kicked up on his desk, passed out. An empty bottle of scotch resting against his chest as he breathes evenly.

He can’t stop shaking, tears threatening to spill, but he’s on a time constraint.

Moving as fast as he can while trying not to make any noise, he gets up. The handcuffs are easy to snap, leaving them like bracelets around his wrists. It takes a little more of his strength to shove the cell door open, but he’s lifted busses before, this is nothing. He’s surprised the cops thought this would hold him.

His mask and gloves are sitting on the desk in a plastic bag. He grabs it but he doesn’t bother putting them on, he can see the blood on them and it makes his stomach flip.

Identity be damned. He just wants to be home.

He blinks and he’s in the towers elevator. He can’t remember anything from in between. All he can think about is the blood and Emily’s scream.

He’s sitting on the elevator floor, it’s not moving. All he can smell is the strong stench of the blood and he throws up into his lap. He doesn’t have the energy to move.

Tears start falling down his face in waves, choking him and drowning him all at once, and he hates himself more than ever.

He’s sitting in a pool of Emily’s blood and his own vomit, sobbing and shaking, and he doesn’t even have the strength to press the button to go up to the penthouse. If it were earlier in the day, anybody could’ve walked into the elevator and seen him like this.

But his brain doesn’t have the space for self-hatred. It’s all just guilt and grief and Emily.

The guy was mugging her. He made it before the guy even had time to grab her.

The mugger had pointed his gun at Peter’s head, he doesn’t know if he could’ve ducked in time, but he would’ve preferred to be dead than this, but Emily had jumped at the mugger. She’d screamed and then she’d fallen.

He’s not breathing right, can barely breathe at all without his stomach knotting more. And the only thing that saves him is Tony’s protocols.

“Boss has been alerted of your distress, young sir,” Friday calls out gently from the speakers. “Would you like me to take you up to the penthouse?”

Peter nods, or at least he thinks he nods. He’s not entirely sure, not entirely in control of his own shaking body. But the elevator lurches and starts its ascent, so he thinks he must’ve nodded.

The elevator doors slide open after what feels like a million years. Tony’s already there, already waiting. Peter doesn’t look up from Tony’s socked feet.

“Oh my…” Tony starts to say, but his voice trails off in uncertainty. “What happened? God, please tell me that’s not your blood.”

Peter sobs in response, wishing it was his blood. It’s supposed to be his, but it’s not. It’s Emily. Emily’s the one in a hospital, probably dead, he doesn’t know. He may never know.

He’s pulling at the chest of his suit, needing it off. He doesn’t want to feel Emily’s blood sticking to his suit to his skin. He can’t even look at it, but he needs it off.

Crying loudly, he claws at the front of his chest until Tony’s gentle hands are stilling his.

“It’s okay, buddy, it’s okay. I’ll help you,” Tony’s saying, oh so softly. He presses the spider emblem in the center of Peter’s chest and carefully starts pulling the material off Peter’s shoulders and arms as Peter cries uselessly.

Tony’s gentle and kind as he pulls Peter’s stained suit off his body and pushes it into the plastic bag with Peter’s gloves and mask. The teenager doesn’t offer much help, barely able to breathe let alone assist his mentor.

“C’mon, buddy. Let’s get you cleaned off, yeah? A bath?” Tony murmurs softly, brushing Peter’s hair out of his eyes. Peter hates that Tony’s fingers are red too. “You gotta help me out here, bubba. I can’t carry you anymore. You know I’m an old man with a weak back.”

Hatred settles thickly in his body like tar in his veins, thick and heavy and overwhelmingly dark. He hates that there’s blood on his skin, everywhere. He hates that he’s sobbing like a toddler having a tantrum, sitting in his boxers on the elevator floor. He hates that Tony’s speaking to him so quietly. The world should be angry. He might as well have been Emily’s killer.

Tony sighs softly, thumb gently brushing over Peter’s cheekbone, catching a few tears that fall like a waterfall.

“It’s going to be okay, Tesoro. I’ve got you.” Tony gently lifts him off the elevator floor into his arms. He says something to Friday about not moving the elevator until he gives the okay and starting a warm bath, but Peter can’t hear much over his own cries and ringing ears.

Peter’s fingers curl into Tony’s t-shirt, gripping the fabric like a lifeline. He tucks his head against Tony’s chest and lets himself fall weak into Tony’s hold.

Everything’s staticky and blurry, but he hangs onto the smell of coffee and the warmth radiating off Tony.

The next thing Peter’s aware of is being smoothly lowered into a hot bath.

He whines at the loss of contact with Tony, squeezing his eyes shut. He doesn’t want to see the water turning red.

“It’s okay, piccolo. I’m right here. I’ve got you, I promise,” Tony says not far from Peter. “Just relax and I’ll take care of you, alright?”

Peter tries to do as told, letting his muscles finally soothe in the heated, bubbly water, and let’s his mind float away.

He focuses on Tony’s hands maneuvering him deeper into the bath so he can carefully wash Peter’s hair. The subtle smell of rose shampoo followed by lavender soap. Peter wouldn’t be surprised if they were more expensive than everything Peter owns combined.

One hand in his hair, the other tipping his chin up to make sure none of it gets in his eyes, Peter tries his best not to think about Emily and Peter’s hands pressing down on her bleeding wound-

A hiccupping sob escapes his throat and Tony’s fingers tighten on Peter’s chin.

“Il mio bambino,” Tony breathes softly. His hands are so careful as they wash Peter’s hair and his chest, careful to remove all the blood. “I’ve got you. You’re safe. I promise.”

It’s been probably fifteen minutes since he was last crying, so it feels normal when the tears return, mixing with the water that’s run down his face.

He lets himself cry, no matter how much he shakes, no matter how much Tony soothes him, no matter how loud and pathetic he feels. He cries and cries and cries because it’s the only thing he knows how to do. Emily’s dying and it’s all his fault.

He can’t help but to think about Emily’s body, bleeding out on the pavement, an exact replicate of Ben’s body, bloody and eyes glossy. It makes his whole chest ache.

Eventually, the water is drained and he’s wrapped in a fluffy towel. His boxers are soaking wet and he’s shaking. But Tony leads him to the huge adjacent bedroom until he’s sitting on the edge of the bed. Tony collects a pile of clothing and sets it down beside Peter.

“Come on, tesoro. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” Tony says, pushing Peter’s dripping curls out of his face. “I’m going to turn around, but let me know if you need help.”

Peter manages to change into the new pair of boxers on his own, hands shaking almost too badly to do it, but he does. He gives up after that, whining wordlessly for help. Tony’s there immediately, gently pushing Peter’s arms into a warm hoodie and then his legs into a pair of equally cozy sweatpants.

Once he’s changed, Tony helps Peter back into the bed, wrapping a thick blanket around Peter’s shoulders.

“Boss?” Friday pipes up. She’s quiet and sounds more gentle than she normally does like somehow she understands. “Miss Potts is calling.”

“Can it wait?” Tony asks. His voice is pitched low for Peter’s sake, but there’s unmistakable annoyance.

“She says it’s about Mister Parker and a woman by the name of Emily.”

Peter jolts, reconnecting like his brain was jumpstarted. He doesn’t know how to speak.

“Put her through, Fri,” Tony sighs. He keeps Peter grounded, an arm around the teenager’s shaking shoulders. “Pep? Everything okay?”

“Peter’s on the news,” Pepper starts, voice pitched equally low. “Apparently, Emily’s mom went on Emily’s Twitter less than an hour ago saying that she needed to get into contact with Spider-Man. It went viral almost instantly when her mom shared the story of what happened.”

“Who’s Emily?” Tony asks, curiosity coloring his face. “I’ll call you back as soon as I can, Pep.”

The call disconnects and he turns to Peter. “What happened tonight?”

Peter shakes his head. He can’t tell him. But the handcuffs still hang around each wrist, broken chains clanging when he moves his hands. And Tony was nice enough to do everything he’s done, Peter might as well wreck everything.

“I’m a killer,” Peter says. His voice is broken, hoarse, shaking almost as bad as his hands are. “I… I tried to save her, but I-”

“You are not a killer, Peter.” Tony sounds angry, but when Peter looks up all he can see is love.

“He… The mugger was trying to shoot me and I- I let her push me out of the way. It should’ve been me. It should’ve- I should be the one-”

Tony shakes his head insistently, thumb brushing away Peter’s tears as they fall. “It was the mugger’s fault. Nobody else’s. She made the choice to save you, Petey.”

“His gun was at my head and I- I froze and she must’ve seen because she- she jumped at the mugger and she- she got shot and I-”

An ugly sob escapes his lungs and he ducks his head against Tony’s collarbone, shoulders shaking. Tony holds onto him tightly like Peter had done for Emily.

“That wasn’t your fault, buddy. I swear. It was entirely on the mugger. Nobody else’s. And whoever arrested you? That means they were stupid and I’ll take care of it, okay? I’ll take care of Emily’s hospital bills and family, I’ll deal with the mugger, I’ll deal with the police who saw your identity, I’ll take care of you. It’s all going to be okay.”

It sounds like a lie, but Peter prefers the false hope over no hope at all. For now, at least.

“Now, c’mon, bambino, get those cuffs off. I don’t know if that’s your new fashion statement or what, but I don’t like seeing them on you. And then it’s bedtime. You’ve had a long day.”

Peter’s hand grabs Tony’s sleeve when he feels Tony pulling away.

Tony’s face softens and he offers a sad smile. “I’m right here, tesoro. It’s okay. I’m not going anywhere.”

Nodding, Peter relents his grip and with his free hand he snaps the metal of the cuffs until they fall off. Tony removes them from Peter’s line of sight before he’s gently pushing the teenager down onto the bed.

Tony slides into the bed beside Peter, letting the boy leech onto his side almost instantly, burying his face into Tony’s heavy sweater.

“I’ve got you, cucciolo. It’s okay,” Tony murmurs, smoothing Peter’s damp curls. “It’s going to be okay.”

Peter cries himself to sleep in Tony’s hold.

*

Peter wakes blearily to a phone ringing. He’s still tucked against Tony’s side like a child who had a nightmare and crawled into their parents bed.

He feels more normal than before. Weird because of his dry eyes and stuffy nose and scratchy throat from crying all night, but more like himself. More human.

“Yeah, he’s right with me,” Tony’s saying quietly. He must’ve picked up the phone. He pauses. “He’s not… He’s alive and unharmed, but not good, May. He… He had a tough night.”

It’s May.

He suddenly knows he needs to talk to her. To hear her voice.

Grabbing Tony’s sleeve, almost missing in his sleep-bleary state, he makes a whiny noise, throat too dry and mind still too fuzzy to remember how to speak.

Tony looks down at him, a fond smile on his mouth. He gently cards his fingers through Peter’s messy bedhead, smoothing it down and beginning to work through the knots as he hands Peter the phone.

“Hmm?” Peter hums, wishing he could offer her more than that.

“Hey, baby,” May murmurs, adopting the same tone Pepper, Friday, and Tony have all taken on around him. “How are you doing?”

He clears his throat, pushing himself another step towards feeling like a human. “Okay.”

“That’s good,” she says. “I got worried when you didn’t come home last night, but I’m glad you’re safe and well. I know it’s been a tough night…”

“Can you do me a favour?” he asks, focusing on Tony’s fingers unknotting his hair. “Can you find out if Emily’s okay? They took her to the hospital and I… I just need to know.”

May sounds like she’s smiling when she starts talking. “I’ve been at work all morning and I’ve been taking good care of her, kid. She got out of surgery last night and she’s already well on her way to mended. She gave a statement to the police and they’ve already narrowed down their search by a helluva lot to find the guy. Her and her mom wants to talk to you, well Spider-Man you, whenever you have a chance to swing by.”

“They wanna yell at me?” Peter asks quietly. He sounds young and small and nothing like the hero he wishes he was.

May laughs though. “No, Peter. You saved her life. You kept pressure on the wound and you kept her awake, even though she didn’t look awake. You did everything you were supposed to do.”

“Except keep her safe in the first place.”

“You can’t save everyone, baby, but you saved Emily.”

*

Tony and May waited in the hallway while Peter went into the room. May made sure it was clear of everyone but Emily and her mom, and Tony managed to jumble the security cameras in the hospital, too.

“Hey,” he says, sounding braver than he feels.

Emily looks fine. She’s sitting up in her hospital bed, laughing at something her mom said. She’s got one IV in her left hand, and heart monitor stickers on her chest, but otherwise… Otherwise, she’s fine. Better than fine, even.

Both women look up, confusion written across their faces.

“I didn’t wanna show up in the whole costume, but I thought I should pay you a visit,” he says. “I’m, um, I’m Peter. Peter Parker. Spider-Man.”

“Oh my god, you’re just a kid,” Emily’s mom breathes. “You’re just a little kid.”

“I’m sixteen,” he says on impulse. “Listen, I, um, I know you need to rest and I don’t know how much you really want to see me here, but just- Thank you. For saving my life. And I’m so sorry. I couldn’t be more sorry that I-”

Emily rolls her eyes. “You didn’t do anything. You stopped me from getting mugged. You were practically a nurse when I got shot, did everything right according to the nurses. Said I was very lucky I had you there with me.”

“But I-”

“You saved my baby,” Emily’s mom says sincerely. She looks pained and tired, but so beyond grateful. “Not only is my kid okay, but you’re okay too. You’re aunt was sick with worry when she heard the story. Both of you are okay and that’s all that matters.”

Peter swallows thickly, unsure how to answer. “Thank you, ma’am.”

She smiles. “Now, get back to your family so they can swaddle you in bubble wrap like I plan on doing with Emily.”

“Sounds like a good plan to me,” Tony pipes up from the doorway. “I think we should let them rest and head out, kiddo.”

He says goodbye to the nice family, even exchanging numbers with Emily in case she needs anything ever again.

Tony keeps an arm around Peter’s shoulders as he leads him out to the car.

When they get there, Tony pulls the teenager into a hug.

“I’m proud of you,” he says, pressing a kiss to Peter’s temple. “And she’s right, I’m swaddling you in bubble wrap when we get home.”

“Love you too, Mister Stark.”

Tony’s grinning when he pulls away. “Pancakes, bambino?”

Peter lights up in a smile.

Peter’s okay, Emily’s okay, everything’s over.

There’s no red on his ledger, his hands are clean.

[dawnwave16]

A Magical Friendship

Let’s see who still reads my stories...  As some may have noticed there are only 2 chapters of ‘Gamer Girl’ posted here on tumblr despite it actually being 5 chapters long.  If you want them, they are up on AO3 but I got tired of ZERO feedback here so I stopped posting.  If you like my work feel free to read everything there, depending if this story receives any feedback I might consider continuing to post my stuff here...

Rant over on with the story.

[Lily was 16 Hotch was 17 at a summer camp. This means I've changed the year that Hotch was born to 1963 and Lily's to 1964. She would have hidden her pregnancy with her robes and James would have helped her by saying that the child was his when she gave birth in the hospital wing.] The case should have been a simple one. Sure it was on a par with some of the worst they had ever worked what with the fact that the unsub was raping and torturing his victims before dismembering them while they were alive but with that level of planning and execution, it should have been easy to get the unsub to slip up. It hadn't been. The unsub had left no DNA for them, the cuts lacked tool marks and the bodies were too clean considering everything that had been done to them. They hadn't even been able to tell what had been used to clean them before they were dumped. It was beginning to look like the case was going to go cold. Reid was staring at the board they had been using for an hour when Morgan walked in and put a cup of green tea next to him. “What do you see, Pretty Boy?” “Something I'm not sure how to react to,” Reid replied softly his eyes yet to move from the board. “Explain,” Hotch said bluntly, having walked in behind Morgan. “All the victims fit the same profile. Petit, well off, successful women that are all unbelievably well-liked due to their kind and giving nature. Our unsub is somehow changing the victim's natural hair colour to black and their eyes to the same shade of malachite green, leaving no evidence as to how.” “We know all of this Reid. While we don't like it and find it unnerving, you seem to be taking that harder than the rest of us. The question is why?” Rossi cut in. “Simple, they are all being made to look like one person and unless they somehow have a twin, the only place they could have met her was in the UK. I know that everyone is said to have a physical twin somewhere in the world but given what these victims are going through, that seems unlikely to be the case here.” “Pretty Boy are you telling me you know who the unsub is trying to make their victims look like?” Morgan asked in disbelief. “Yes. And if my suspicions are correct, she is the only one who will be able to help us catch this person. The only problem is...” Reid trailed off. “Is what?” JJ queried. “No, not now. It won't impact on the case and in all honestly, I don't have any proof as to if what I suspect is true.” Reid said shaking his head before pulling his phone out of his pocket and dialling a number. “Hey, sorry did I wake you? Really? It's 08:30 AM so it should be 04:00 AM in London, did you have to wake up early for a meeting? Oh, wait so where are you? Alright then, um, can you do me a huge favour and come to the police station then? It's really important. Great see you in 5 minutes then!” Reid hung up the phone and looked at it in amazement. “What are the odds?” He murmured. “What are the odds of what?” Hotch practically demanded. “The person that I said all our victims resemble and that I suspect may be able to help us? She's here, in Salem, as a guest lecturer for something.” Reid said still looking amazed. This startled the team. Hotch was about to start asking Reid more questions when there was a knock on the door and he turned to see a pixie-like woman. She had long black hair tied neatly in a braid down her back which drew attention to her high cheekbones and pale pink, cupids bow lips. Her malachite green eyes were frames by thick lashes and a pair of black-rimmed butterfly glasses seemed to make her eyes even larger. She was dressed casually as she was wearing a pair of stonewashed blue jeans that she had paired with a slightly oversized red shirt printed with a gold lion and a pair of sneakers. She was also wearing a black double-breasted coat but it was hanging open. Morgan's jaw dropped as he looked her over a few times as if trying to confirm what he was seeing. Reid had looked up at the knock and smiled when he saw her. “Will! Hey, thanks for coming at such short notice. Guys, this is Willow Potter, we've been friends since we were children,” He said as he stood to greet her properly. “Penn, good to see you. It's been too long.” Her voice was soft yet it carried a hint of steal that let them know she was stronger than she looked. “So, not to be rude but what's up? You didn't say what was wrong on the phone and while I was trying to organise some time off to visit, you wouldn't have asked me to come here unless something had gone seriously wrong.” She smiled sadly as she spoke which helped to keep the tone light despite its severity. “The case we are working on has us baffled but what was of concern to me was how much the victims look like you. Take a look,” he said waving a hand towards the board. The details each of the women's deaths weren't written up but the team was worried about how she would react. She was quiet for a moment as she frowned at the board. “I don't know much about the case but I can see why Penn was worried, they do look a lot like me. Are there any details you can share without compromising your case?” Her voice was flat and gave nothing away which made Reid smile slightly. However, it was Hotch who answered her question. “They were all raped and tortured before being dismembered while they were still alive, then dumped in high profile areas. The problem is the unsub is leaving absolutely no forensic evidence and we have no way of tracking who could be next due to the changes he makes to his victims.” His voice was clinical as he spoke almost as though he was trying to shock her. “Any symbols left behind from where ever the women were taken from or even somewhere on their homes?” Willow asked calmly as she processed what had been said. Reid's head snapped towards her. “You think they might be part of Riddle's group?” He asked with a voice laced with worry. “The MO is identical to three members of his old group, so yes. I may be a teacher these days but I had way too much exposure to those sadists to be able to forget that type of thing,” Was her only reply as Morgan placed a video call to Garcia and Hotch called an officer over to ask him the same question. “What type of symbol are we talking about here? And why is it important?” Hotch demanded as the officer went to double-check. “Potentially, yes it is. If your unsub is who I'm thinking it is, your case just got a lot bigger than it already is. The symbol would be a skull with a snake coming out of its mouth.” Weirdly enough the description of the symbol seemed to come in distorted stereo as Willow and Garcia spoke at the same time. Willow's eyes closed as if she was in pain as she heard Garcia's words. “It was found at each of the victims' houses, burned into the door frame.” Garcia continued before looking at Willow, “Oh, um, hi. Sorry, I didn't expect anyone except my team to be there, I'm Penelope Garcia,” Garcia said slightly flustered. “It's alright, unfortunately, your case just got a whole lot worse and more complicated, though,” Willow said with a sigh. “Riddle's group?” Reid asked sadly. “Riddle's group,” Willow confirmed. “Would someone please explain what the significance of 'Riddle's group' is?” Hotch demanded. Willow and Reid exchanged a look before Willow looked at Hotch calmly. “As much as I want to explain it's the significance, I am bound by law to only be able to give you a highly summarised version until I know what everyone is cleared to know. I know Reid has the correct clearance for this, however that has nothing to do with his FBI clearance and more to do with the fact that he has been my voice of sanity since I was ten.” The team stared at Willow even as Reid watched her calmly. He could see the exact moment she came up with a plan and started smiling as a glint that normally spelt trouble for the one on the receiving end appeared in her eyes. “Hey, Garcia?” “Yeah?” “Try inputting Tom Marvelo Riddle, 1981 and Potter. It will throw up an alert that that is restricted information. It will also bring an agent to your office, which means I need to be clearly visible in your video call screen.” “Um, ok but” “The higher up's will block my requests to get the team read in. By them seeing me sitting with everyone here it'll force them to read every one in. If only to give me the chewing out that they'll want to give me.” Willow had a cheeky smirk as she said the last bit. “I hate when politics get in the way of getting a case solved and I'm not afraid of getting into trouble to get my way.” The team stared at her but Garcia did as Willow had suggested only to jump as her door was thrown open. The agent froze when he saw Willow smirking on the video screen. “Potter!” The agent growled. “You going to stonewall me or am I going to be allowed to get these guys read in so that we can get more killers off the streets? At the rate, you lot generally fuck around before you make a decision you are going to have another crisis on your hands that will make Newt's Mess look like a stroll in the park.” Willow had crossed her arms and was speaking to the agent calmly, however, the team could see the clear challenge in her eyes. “I will be reading in Agent Hotchner regardless of your decision just so you know if only so he knows why his team isn't going to be able to do the final takedown.” “What is it with you Brits thinking that you can do this type of thing?” The agent said throwing his hands up in the air. “Oh, I don't know. Maybe the fact that I have experience with chasing DE's and those associated with them? The fact that I took out their leader? Or maybe it is the fact that you are so concerned with possible outcomes that you can't see the forest for the trees? How many cases does this team solve per year? And how many cases do you lot get that sit stagnant on your desk that would

benefit from their expertise but don't get it because they are not read in? With all due respect, I'd recommend sorting out your priorities and realise that you could save more lives by asking for the help that you obviously need.” Willow stared at the agent until he suddenly threw his hands in the air. “On your head be it, Potter! But it's you that will be going before Lopez to defend your actions here. Don't forget to get them to sign the forms.” The agent turned on his heel then staked out the room slamming the door behind him. “That went well,” Willow said with a sigh of relief, flopping back into a chair her eyes closed as the unseen tension drained out of her. The team looked at her with a touch of confusion while Reid put his hand on her shoulder, silently asking if she was alright. “I'm ok, Penn,” she said quietly as Garcia let out a yelp as information suddenly became available to her. “Am I reading this correctly?” Garcia asked bemusedly, “Because if I am then I have to wonder how all of this stays hidden so well and how.” Reid motioned for everyone to take a seat while he closed the door and made the room as secure as he could. Willow cast a couple of discrete spells without taking out her wand and when Reid sat down next to her, the two of them tag-teamed with each other to get the team up to speed about the existence of magic. To say that their reactions would have been comical under any other circumstance was an understatement. “I'm sorry, we've seen a whole lot of weird things due to cases over the last few years but I just can't accept that magic is real with no proof.” Morgan spluttered. “That's fair. I didn't think magic was real either until I met Willow. Seriously, we didn't even know what it was until she was elven. All we knew was that if she didn't want us to be found, we weren't. If she didn't want food to go off or lose temperature or melt, it stayed the way it was.” Reid said with a smile as he remembered everything that had happened that summer. “Am I the only one that's confused as to how you two met?” Rossi said suddenly from where he was sitting. “We met and became friends when I helped her hide from her bully of a cousin while her family was in Las Vegas on a business trip for her uncle back when I was nine,” Reid explained calmly as Willow looked over his copy of the case files to get herself up to speed. “Willow had just turned 10 at the time and her Uncle's boss had insisted that she joined the family to give a better impression. We kept in touch after Willow had to return to the UK through letters and later through the odd phonecall whenever Willow could sneak one in. Oh, sure it had been difficult as neither of us had had much money so paying for our letters to be posted to each other but we made do. We had a small problem when she went to Hogwarts and we had to figure out how to get the letters to each other without the normal mail systems. In a fit of desperation, Willow eventually wrote to Gringotts and they recommended we get communication boxes. Willow ordered a pair through them and soon after that, we had each had a beautifully decorated wooden box inlaid with mother of pearl that had been enchanted to send whatever was placed in them to the matching box. It saves on postage and considering how much we wrote to each other that was probably a good thing.” The team smiled at Reid as he got lost in his memories. It was clear to them that there was something more between these two but they didn't know if the two of them had explored it yet so they stayed silent. “Before we continue with this case, can I just say that those details you asked me to look up are just tragic,” Garcia said suddenly. “I'm sorry about that Garcia. Getting you to try to pull the file regarding my parents' murder and the murder attempt on myself was the easiest way I could think of to get people to respond. Most people know I remember the night and more importantly, they know that I remember my mother's screams and my stepdad yelling for her to get away... Anyway, it's because of my views on it that it would automatically be flagged if someone searches for it.” Willow explained with an apologetic smile while the team, other than Reid, looked at her with a mix of sympathy and horror. “Wait, stepfather? I thought he was your father.” Reid said suddenly. “I did too until I read my mother's diary a week ago,” Willow quickly fished it out and handed said diary to him, “It turns out James was my stepfather and that he blood adopted me when I was born. Mom fell pregnant to a guy here in the States when she was 15 but managed to delay her pregnancy with a potion. She got hit with a spell that cancelled out that potion at some stage and after that, she hid it with baggy clothes and robes until she gave birth to me. She didn't give many details about who he could be though.” “She gave one that you would have missed but that gives my suspicion a bit more credence. She gives his first name and the name of the camp she was at when she fell pregnant.” Reid said quietly as he looked through it quickly. “Reid?” “Pretty Boy?” “Hotch, it's the same camp as the one you were telling us about the other day and...” Reid trailed off. “And?” Hotch prompted. “And your first name. She's written that she didn't get your surname and that her parents told her about three months worth of letters that they received and put aside for her but that her sister destroyed out of spite. It was what lead to their final fallout with each other and why she never wrote back, she didn't have an address to post them to.” Reid said looking at Hotch who was staring at both Reid and Willow in shock. “Apparently her parents had sent both of them to the camp as a last-ditch effort to reconcile their relationship. Both girls attended the camp under a false name and Lily wore contacts to hide her unusual eye colour. Either way, you'll need to do a paternity test to confirm all this,” He added. “As nice as it would be to find out my birth father is alive and that it's possible for me to get to know him, we have a case that needs to be solved first. We are both still alive and I think I've proven I'm really hard to kill so the case takes priority right now,” Willow said with a wry smile which seemed to make the team realise that they had gone seriously off-topic. With all the paperwork sorted for them knowing about magic, it was relatively simple for them to piece together why there was no normal forensic evidence. A quick test from the MME (Magical Medical Examiner) told them which spells were used on each of the women, which also gave them the biggest clue as to who the unsub was. “Well other than a rather violent severing charm being used to dismember each of your victims there is significant evidence of the Cruciatus Curse, mild use of the blood boiling hex and the last spell used on each of the victims before they were killed was the mutilation hex. Magic signature detection spells have shown two unique yet similar signatures leading me to believe that your killers are siblings. Oh and because this was done with a spell, a normal coroner would have missed it but each victim had the dark mark on the underside of their patella, placed their post mortem.” The MME's voice was forcibly detached from what he was describing which told Willow just how bad each victim was. With a quick word of thanks to the MME, she made her way back to the team to give them the details. As she walked she went over different ways to track down the Lestrange brothers, muttering as she went which earned her several side-eyed looks for the local LEO's. After walking into the room and giving them all the details she knew a plan was quickly hatched and just as quickly put into place. Neither Reid nor Hotch was too happy about the plan but they agreed that it was the best they could come up with. Willow would play as the bait and several American Aurors would be her back up. This kept the BAU away from the scene and safely away from any spellfire but it also meant that they were essentially handing the case over to the people who were best equipped to handle it. Their part was done and the best part was they would have drastically less paperwork to do then they normally would. That didn't stop any of them from worrying about Willow though so their Auror contact decided to have a bit of a QnA session with them. It didn't take long for the team to ask about potions and it here that the Auror slipped up slightly. Hotch asked if wizarding kind had a way of working out who a sample of blood belonged to which lead to a discussion about heritage potions and how they worked in general as well as if they were affected by blood adoptions. Since the Auror didn't know all the circumstances he had readily answered the question and offered to show them how they worked. A quick look at Reid had him sighing and reaching into his wallet and bringing out what looked to be a letter faded from age. What scared them was the amount of what looked like blood that was staining the page. Reid refused to acknowledge the questioning glances as he asked the Auror how much blood was needed. Seeing the letter and guessing it was important to the man holding it, he admitted that they only needed a tiny piece if they were just trying to identify the person the blood belonged to and the next of kin. Reid handed the Auror the letter and with a quick spell, a small piece was removed without touching the contents of the letter. With the bloody paper added to the potion, he proceeded to drop a fountain pen into the pot he had used since it looked less suspicious. Once the potion had vanished due to the pen absorbing it the Auror was quick to place it on a clean sheet of paper and the BAU team watched in amazement as Willow's name appeared in a neat print quickly followed by

the names Lily Evens (Potter) and Aaron Hotchner. The name James Potter also appeared but with a line next to it that said it was a blood adoption. Everyone in the room stared at the results. Reid ran a hand over his face knowing he would now have to deal with an overprotective Hotch if he ever wanted to act on his feelings. Hotch, on the other hand, was wondering how he was going to get to know his adult daughter and what he should be doing to help her. The rest of the team were just as unsure of what they should be doing. After a further three hours of debates about magic that had followed the awkward silence brought about by the announcement of Willow's paternity, the door finally opened. It was Willow much to their relief however Spencer was quick to notice that she had changed into a button-down blouse and that there was a bandage peeking out from under the collar. “Are you ok?” He blurted out without thinking. “Yeah, I'm going to be on a potions regimen for the next month at least but I'm ok. It seems Dolenhov was with them and he decided to use his speciality curse against me. I dodged the worst of it by creating a marble sheet in front of me but I didn't make it big enough so the edge of the curse caught my shoulder.” Willow reassured him with a soft smile. She walked in and sat down on one of the free chairs tilting her head back and closed her eyes. “I think I'm a little out of practice with my dodging,” her wry comment made Spencer shake his head at her. “I think you've done more than enough of that type of thing in your life to have earned your retirement into being just a teacher, Will,” Spencer said just as wryly. “Besides it's been how long since you stepped down from being an Auror? Cut yourself some slack Will.” “You were an Auror? What made you decide to become one and why the drastic career change?” Hotch asked quietly. Willow looked at him in confusion until Reid handed her the paper from earlier with the heritage potion results on it. Her expression cleared up as she read it even as she sighed. “To understand that you need a fuller picture of what I've lived through. That is a very long story though and I know that this room will be needed by the police here so would it be possible to move this discussion to my suite at the hotel? I promise it's large enough for everyone to be able to sit comfortably.” Willow's voice was soft as she spoke, the edge of sadness making it apparent to the team that she didn't want to talk about her life and that she was giving herself the time to prepare herself to do just that. They made their way back to the hotel that Willow was staying at and were soon settled on the couches comfortably. Willow had brought a stone bowl out from the bedroom area of the suite and had set it on the coffee table. She had explained what it was and how it worked as well as the fact that this one had a projection function so they wouldn't have to touch anything in order to see what she needed to show them. She used a fairly happy memory from her visit to Vegas to show them how it worked and Spencer had blushed a bright shade of scarlet at the teams cooing over how cute he was when he was young. Soon enough though everyone was wishing for something stronger than coffee as they listened and watched some of the important parts of Willow's life. They soon understood why she had felt like she had no choice but to be an Auror and were even more grateful that she had stayed in contact with Spencer as he had been the one to act as her sounding board when she had faced the choice of retiring from the force while still in one piece. Sure she had her scars but she hadn't lost any limbs like some of the others. As for Hotch, he couldn't be prouder of his newly discovered daughter if he had tried. She was strong and focused and had been through what most would consider to be hell. Heck, they had had unsubs that had gone through less than what she had and yet they had snapped but his daughter was still standing strong. She was still able to laugh and smile despite everything which impressed him tremendously. It was very late by the time Willow had finished her story and the room service cart had come and gone with meals and desserts for everyone. The team had tried to pay for their meal but Willow had waved them off saying that she had it covered while Spencer watched in amusement, eventually bursting out laughing when they tried to insist. “What do you find so funny, Petty Boy? It's only fair that we pay for ourselves as shouldn't have to cover all of what we ate out of a teacher's salary!” Morgan demanded heatedly, which made Willow give in to her laughter as well. “Morgan, I have never touched my salary, most of it goes straight to charities to help orphans or those that are being abused. I live off of the interest my various investments make. To be honest, thanks to my inheritance I never have to work a day in my life and neither would my children or grandchildren. I work because I'd go mad otherwise. Besides, I like the fact that I'm teaching the next generation how to defend themselves.” They all headed to bed soon after that with Willow having transfigured most of the couches into very comfortable beds for everyone. It was only when JJ woke up in the middle of the night needing the toilet that she noticed that Reid was not on one of the transfigured beds and that there was a light shining through the crack of Willow's ajar bedroom door. A quick peek showed that Reid and Willow were both still awake and were talking to each other as the cuddled on the bed. Thankfully for her peace of mind, they were both fully dressed.

[bitterlemonwater]

Would you ever consider writing something with Stephen Strange and Peter? 🥺 The rarepair is truly lacking and I feel like you could make something perfectly smutty out of post-Endgame taking Peter under Stephen's (magical) wing, or doctor AU

Endg*me who? I don’t know her. Smutty non-powered doctor au (that’s much more of a club au than a proper doctor au) it is. I’ve only written Stephen x Peter once before so?? Hope you like it anon bby

Peter’s age is unspecified, Strange has post-Sorcerer Supreme facial hair bc I said so, hand jobs, non-graphic but explicitly mentioned violence (Peter gets mugged in the beginning), clubbing, inaccurate medical procedures?? i’m not a doctor and have never worked in a hospital lol. 5k

—-

Peter wakes up in a hospital bed. 

He remembers leaving his apartment. He remembers zipping his wallet into one jacket pocket and slipping his phone into the other, his hand wrapped around it. He remembers turning all the right corners and dodging a cyclist and sniffling in the chilly weather. 

He doesn’t remember why or how he—

Oh, no, wait. Yeah. He remembers that.

The three thugs that had caught him by the hood of his jacket and yanked him into a murky alleyway between two run down hole-in-the-walls, both of which were closed for the night by the time Peter finally had time to run his errands. Milk and printer paper from a 24/7 Target hadn’t seemed like they would be a problem, but. That’s a sketchy neighborhood in New York, he supposes. 

He’d handed over his wallet without a fight (because contrary to popular belief, he doesn’t actually have a death wish) and was giving up his phone when May started calling him. 

Apparently the buzzing and loud ringtone (what? He has unfortunately selective hearing—sometimes it just gets tuned out and he needs volume to catch his attention) and potential red alert freaked the guys out, because one swatted his phone out of his grip and before he could raise his hands in surrender, someone decked him in the face.

And now he’s in a hospital bed. 

The window shades are half opened but there’s no light coming in, and the light in the room is off, only a dim lamp illuminating everything—so it must still be nighttime. Hopefully the same night, but Peter won’t push his luck. 

His head throbs like hell and he sits up slowly. The chair beside his bed keeps his shoes and jacket in reassuring view, but other than that, he’s been blessed to keep his regular clothes on. (Definitely the same night, then. Maybe he’ll only have been out for a few hours?)

For a few minutes, Peter just sits still on the bed, breathing, rubbing his temples. He really hopes he doesn’t have a concussion. This one hospital visit is going to suck to pay off—especially if he was brought in by an ambulance—and he’d rather not add follow up appointments to the bill. 

It’s not long before a nurse stops by. He turns on the lights and it makes Peter cringe, but not as awfully as he’s heard concussions usually make bright lights. There’s still hope, then.

The nurse asks him how he’s feeling and if he’s in any pain, then takes down his information, explains that he’s only been out for three hours and that it’s currently one in the morning. Peter tells him about getting mugged and he responds by saying they’ll have an officer come down to talk to him after he is released from care. 

The nurse finishes by asking if there’s anyone Peter would like to call. Peter debates saying no, but he can already hear May yelling at him if he tries to walk himself home after this, so he gives them Ned’s number and lays back down. 

“Alright. Doctor Strange will be here look you over in a moment.” The nurse says. Doctor Strange? Doctor, Strange. Strange. Why does that sound familiar?

While the nurse gives him two pills for the pain, Peter tries to recall where he’s heard that name before, wracking his brain and only coming up with incomplete thoughts and almost-resurrected memories. He knows he’s heard that before. He just can’t figure out where.

He’s already decided to awkwardly ask the doctor if they’ve met before when the door opens again.

In steps a man half turned away from him, tall and not quite broad but definitely fit and muscled under his white coat. He’s wearing pale blue scrubs and has a stethoscope around his neck, clipboard in his hands. His hair is brown with the slightest bit of grey, that much Peter can see, with killer cheekbones.

It’s not until the guy finishes whatever quiet conversation he was having and turns towards Peter, uncapping a pen and finally facing the younger that it clicks. 

Shit.

Three weeks earlier

Usually after a rough week of classes and work, Peter is exhausted. He’s tired and he just wants to sleep for fourteen hours, then have food delivered directly to his bed so he doesn’t have to get up for a full twenty four. 

This week it is the opposite. He’s keyed up and anxious to do something. He feels a little detached from himself, and he wants to do something outrageous. He wants an adrenaline rush that will take all his extra energy with it once it fades.

MJ suggests partaking in a protest somewhere, but a quick search tells him there aren’t any nearby that night, and not that Peter doesn’t feel just as passionate about good causes and taking action, but standing with a sign and chanting with a crowd isn’t really the thrill he’s looking for to vent how wound up he is. 

Ned suggests clubbing. Peter likes that idea a lot better. 

He loses his best friend within the first twenty minutes they spend at the bar. It’s not too high end that it actually requires an entrance fee, but it’s a respectable enough place that they definitely wouldn’t have been able to afford more than two drinks.

Which is why they got plenty tipsy before they went into the club. 

Which is why after attractive strangers keep buying Peter shots and sweet bubbly things (as if he can’t handle his liquor, but whatever, he won’t say no to free alcohol) he’s hammered. 

Not black-out wasted, of course. Peter knows his limits well enough to know exactly when he’s having fun, but not too clumsy or cloudy to get in real trouble. But he’s definitely drunk. Definitely, definitely drunk.

Normally Peter isn’t the type to be comfortable in a crowded club full of sweaty bodies, everyone in short dresses and tight button ups that show off all the round and firm parts.

On that note, he hadn’t really had much for a “sexy” outfit other than a blush pink satin t-shirt that MJ said made him look “fuckable” and fitted black chinos. 

But normally Peter doesn’t feel like he’ll explode if he doesn’t find some way to work off pent up nerves. So when girls put their hands on his shoulders and roll and sway their hips, and random guys grab him by the waist and pull his ass flush to their fronts—he laughs and grinds back. 

He flits between partners for the better part of an hour, really only stopping to get free water from the bar or have various old fashioned, rocks, shot, and cocktail glasses slid his way—or to go to the bathroom.

He sees Ned a couple times, always across the room with a girl practically melting into him. Ned’s always had a better sense of rhythm than Peter, but that’s the nice thing about club music. 

You don’t really need rhythm. You just have to move and you’ll either fit the song anyways or someone else will help you along. 

He only takes a few sips of each drink he’s offered, and some he does refuse with a cheeky smile about not getting drunk, even though he’s very drunk already.

Peter’s just left a man (and a half empty glass) at the bar, one who’s already bought him two very sparkling blue drinks and who definitely watches his ass each time he walks away, when he runs into someone. Literally, bumps into them, and though they’re barely thrown off balance and Peter is mid not-sexy-at-all apology, the person steadies both hands on his waist. 

They’re nice hands. Firm but not uncomfortably possessive or rough, pliable enough to move with the way Peter shifts and sways without letting even an ounce of space get under his grip. 

“Hello there,” the man says. Peter looks up and sees a goddamn devilishly handsome face, well trimmed facial hair and piercing grey-green eyes. Probably mid 30’s. Sharply defined cheekbones and jaw. Hot. 

“Hi,” Peter giggles. Giggles like a ditzy idiot, but the man doesn’t seem to mind. 

“You’re a pretty little thing, aren’t you?” He says, and he rakes his gaze up and down Peter’s body in the most shameless way. Peter grins and bites his lip, not shying away from eye contact when the man looks up again. 

“You’re not too bad lookin’ yourself.” 

The man grins, then tugs Peter forward by the waist. Peter doesn’t hesitate to grind forward, one hand on the guy’s chest and the other rising to a tall shoulder, swaying and stepping into the man’s space. 

It earns him a pleased smirk, and the guy drags him closer, walks him back into the messy crowd so they can dance. 

He’s hot, ok, and Peter’s been getting groped and felt up for the last hour and a half, so when he feels a sizable bulge press against him and moves flush with the solid body in front of, beside, behind him—sue him, he gets hard. Really hard. 

Really, really fucking hard. 

As in, he needs to get off in the bathroom right fucking now. 

“Having fun, baby?” The guy asks. His mouth is right next to Peter’s ear, hips rubbing against Peter’s ass, and one hand reaches down to boldly cup Peter’s clothed dick. 

Peter whines and nods, pulling off the guy, fully intending to abandon ship and jerk off in a hopefully not too gross toilet stall. The man grabs his wrist as he steps away, but doesn’t drag him back or try to guide him elsewhere. He just follows Peter through the crowd, landing them both in the bathroom. 

When Peter turns around with the goal of seductively asking if the man wants to help him out or not, he’s met by plush lips rushing to his own. The guy tastes like hard alcohol, like whiskey and bourbon and nothing like the marshmallow vodka Peter and Ned used to get tipsy or the sweet bubbly things Peter’s been offered all night. 

The man walks them through the bathroom door and locks it behind them, as if there aren’t stalls they could easily slip into. For some reason the lights are actually dimmer inside the restroom and the music has no problem slipping through the crack under the door, deafening outside but loud enough to mostly cover up the wet sounds of their kissing.

Peter kisses him hard and messy, wrapping his arms around the guy’s neck and grinding forward, trying to get some friction on his aching cock. The man smirks into the kiss, nipping at Peter’s bottom lip and licking from the bottom of his chin back into his mouth, one hand venturing downwards to cup his erection again.

The man’s hands are so steady, nothing sloppy or uncoordinated about him. He doesn’t tremble or slip up at all, doesn’t hold too tight, doesn’t move to fast but he doesn’t slow down for a second to let Peter breathe. He rubs at Peter’s dick through his slacks, fingers mapping out the shape and digging his palm right where the tip is, making Peter keen into the kiss. 

It doesn’t take long for the guy to get tired with feeling him up over his pants. He unbuttons the chinos easily and tugs down the zipper, slipping his hand under Peter’s boxers too. 

His hand isn’t particularly cold or hot but god does it feel good, having smooth, solid skin to rub against. The man strokes him with purpose a few times, not teasing him or trying to draw out any more of the moans that Peter graciously supplies. Flicking his wrist over the head, cupping and squeezing his balls, tight but not too tight, easing the way with precome. 

And then he stops, just holding, and with a desperate moan Peter picks up where he left off, grinding into the man’s fist, thrusting his hips up and forward into the friction.

He gets close embarrassingly fast (or it would be embarrassing if he could care), his legs shaking and arms tense and abdominal clenched as pressure and pleasure quickly pool in the pit of his stomach.

Peter whimpers into the kiss, all tongue and want, threading his fingers in the older man’s brown (possibly black? It’s dark in here) hair while he’s squeezed tightly against hard muscle by an arm around his waist. 

“Gonna-”

“Do it. Come on, baby, wanna see your pretty face when you do,” the man cuts him off. Peter nods, just nods and bites his lip and lets his head fall back, baring his neck and face to the world (or, really, just to the man jerking him off) as he tips over the edge. 

He moans so loudly that if someone was waiting on the other side of the door they’d hear him over the music. He doesn’t care, though. It’s one of the best orgasms he’s ever had, the build up and being pushed over by such dexterous hands with that deep voice groaning and whispering praise in his ear. 

He soaks his already precome-ruined boxers with release and slumps against the man, needing a second to breathe and collect himself. The guy lets him lean for a few moments, but then turns him around, drawing Peter’s back against him and pinning the smaller man between himself and the counter. 

It’s probably a gross counter, classy bar or otherwise. Peter doesn’t care. He folds his arms on it and rests his forehead on the backs of his hands, letting the man behind him grind into his ass. 

Bare, if Peter picks that up right, the hardly audible shuffle of a belt and zipper, the much more defined feeling cock rubbing against him. He doesn’t care about that, either. If his ass gets stained by this gorgeous Greek god’s come, then he can just borrow Ned’s jacket to wrap around his waist when they leave. 

Will it be embarrassing? Yes. Will Ned let him live it down? Not likely.

Will it be worth it? Yes. 

And it’s not that he’s not present and interested, but he’s definitely a little floaty and the songs outside get caught swimming in his head, and he has a feeling it takes the man longer to come than Peter thinks it does.

Either way, when the guy does climax, he pulls away from Peter and catches it in his hands, washing it away in the sink beside the younger’s nearly collapsed body. 

“You ok there?” The man asks. Even shouting over the music, his voice sounds soft and gentle. Peter nods. 

“‘m fine. Better than fine. That felt great, erm, thanks,” he laughs, standing straight and looking at the guy again. The man smiles at him and pecks his cheeks, then his lips, then smirks. 

“Made a mess of your underwear, though,” he quips.

Peter groans and wiggles around the guy, stealing some paper towels to try and clean up inside his pants (which would have been awkward and a little confusing, as for how much modesty he should take, if the guy didn’t plaster himself to Peter’s back once more, hook his chin over Peter’s shoulder and watch so intently that Peter started to get hard again) before zipping and buttoning back up. 

“I’m Stephen, by the way. Doctor Stephen Strange.”

Peter raises an eyebrow. “Doctor? Wow, that’s really impressive,” he drawls, not really believing the man. One of the first guys to buy him a drink had also claimed to be a doctor, but a few minutes later when his girlfriend showed up, she happened to mention his job at a grocery store. 

Not that Peter has anything against grocery store employees. Ned worked at Walmart before getting into his field and Peter has probably worked at every convenience store and gas station in Queens. 

(And not because he couldn’t hold one down, but because he needed five jobs at once over the summer to be able to pay for his first year of room and board.)

The guy just smiles, not confessing to being a liar but not taking offense that Peter implies he is. “What’s your name, sweetheart?” 

Peter hums. “Peter. I’m a photographer,” he winks at the man and unlocks the bathroom door. Stephen guides him by the wrist (and it would almost be annoying that he doesn’t hold Peter’s hand properly or let him walk on his own, if it wasn’t hot as fuck) back to the bar.

In place of ordering, Stephen just holds up two fingers towards the bartender. She nods at him and turns to grab two shot glasses, and Peter doesn’t have time to unpack why she knows what he wants. 

“Photography, huh?”

“Yup.”

“Sounds riveting.”

“Oh, it is. Nothing as exciting as taking pictures of other people doing exciting things.”

“Oh, I’m sure.”

“Doctor, huh?”

“Mhm.”

“Are you a real doctor?”

“I am.”

Peter swivels on his bar stool, staring the man down. It would be more interrogating and honest to his attempt to read the man if simply looking at Stephen didn’t make his lips twitch in a smile. “Where’d you go to school?” 

“Pre-med in NYU. The rest is a secret.” Stephen winks. Peter narrows his eyes but doesn’t say anything else. 

“So, is that Peter with a last name?” Stephen adds as the drinks are delivered to them. Honey colored with no bubbles and perfect circles of ice in each. Peter takes a sip and lets it roll around his mouth.

“How do I know you’re not a serial killer?”

“I told you I’m a doctor.”

“Perfect cover story,” Peter raises, making an exaggeratedly suspicious face. Stephen laughs at him, probably not because he’s actually amusing but because the man is also drunk. 

“Ok, what about Peter with a phone number?”

Peter can’t stop from smiling. A phone number? Like, a ‘we could totally hook up again and get further than a hand job in a bathroom’ kind of phone number? He tries to keep up the game of not acting as enthusiastic as he is, though. “Well, since I still don’t know if you’re a serial killer, maybe you should give me your number.”

“Really? After I got you off like that?”

“Well, actually I got me off, thanks,” Peter muses cheekily, “but… yep. Precautions.”

That earns him a fond laugh. “Alright, alright. ‘Precautions’. Here,” Stephen snatches a napkin from under his drink and a pen from over the counter of the bar, confirming Peter’s theory that they man is definitely a regular. 

“So you come here often?” Peter says. He realizes the joke a second later than Stephen does and blushes at his own cheesiness while the man shakes his head and laughs. 

“I do, yes.” 

“Hmm. Doctor’s salary and you go to bars that don’t overcharge you for everything? Sounds sketchy.” Peter quips. Stephen rolls his eyes and hands over the napkin, ten numbers in way too nice handwriting bleeding through.

“A friend of mine owns the place. I like to support her now and again.” He explains. Peter nods, accepting the reasoning. 

“That doesn’t explain why you have nice handwriting, though.” He continues, examining the napkin. Stephen laughs at him. 

“I’m taking that as a compliment.” 

Peter grins back.

They talk for almost an hour, broken up by breaks to dance or get more drinks—which are just water, for Peter. He knows when he’s hit his limit, thankfully—and by the time Ned is falling over Peter’s shoulder, leaning against the counter and saying he’s ready to go home and lament about the girl he’s just fallen in love with, Peter thinks he likes Stephen Strange quite a lot. 

He says so, as he’s leaving, and waves the napkin with the man’s number for emphasis. Stephen just grins, tilts his head and raises his glass and shouts over the crowd that he expects to hear from Peter soon.

It’s only when Peter decides “soon” can totally be three in the morning of that same night that he realizes he somehow managed to lose the napkin. 

He’s upset, but not devastated. Just disappointed. Ned tells him they can both get over their narrowly claimed soulmates (i.e. the girl he danced with all night who was leaving to go back to Germany the next morning) by having a star wars marathon and ordering take-out. 

Which, yeah. Was a pretty good remedy, and after a few days, Peter completely (or, mostly completely) forgot about Stephen Strange.

Present time

Peter’s brain stops processing. God, just the sight of the other man makes him antsy to move, having to consciously stop his hips from shifting. He wants to kill the awkwardness. “Uh-”“Peter.” Stephen beats him to it. He cringes slightly.

“Um, h-hi. Hi? How, uh, how are you?” 

That gets him a slightly confused, if amused, eyebrow raise. (Killer cheekbones and those lips Peter assumed he’d never see again) “The question is actually how are you, seeing as you’re the one in the hospital bed.” 

“Oh! Right, right. I’m good. Fine.” This is too awkward. This is kind of painful, actually. 

“Mhm,” the doctor couldn’t sound less convinced, “How’s your head? I’m sure the nurse told you, they did an emergency CT scan when you were first brought in, and you don’t seem to have any injuries beyond the couple of scrapes on your face and side. Let you keep your clothes on since the worst of it might be a minor concussion. Let’s check that over though, yeah?”

Peter just nods slowly. Stephen comes to sit beside him, using another chair opposite the one housing his jacket and shoes. 

He watches as Stephen writes in a few boxes on the paper on his clipboard, but all Peter can think about is that those careful, nimble hands had given him one of the best orgasms ever. 

“Are you in any pain? Any sensitivity to light, headache, confusion, dizziness? Are you nauseous at all? Any memory loss?” 

Peter responds dutifully to the questions. He has a slight headache, and the lights bothered him when they first turned on but overall he’s feeling a lot better. An ache on his whole left side, but he assumes that’s from how he fell and landed when he got knocked out. 

Stephen writes down all of his answers, checking and marking boxes. When he’s done, he sets the clipboard down and beckons Peter closer. He listens to the younger man’s heart, checks his eyes with a light, and peels off some bandages that Peter hadn’t even noticed on his cheek, reapplying fresh gauze and tape with a new layer of antibiotic cream. 

“Well, I’d say you’re in the clear for a concussion, but you’ll definitely need to take it easy for a week or so. Lots of fluids, lots of rest, as low stress as you can manage. No rigorous physical activity. You’re a lucky kid, Peter Parker.” 

Peter cringes, then lets his head loll to the side. He’s tired and the pain medication is making him a little loopy and he’d rather think about anything else than what his bill is going to be for all of this. 

“Well shit. You know my last name now. Hope you don’t serial murder me.” He hums. He reaches for his jacket and slips it on. Stephen has the decency (especially impressive considering he probably thinks Peter ditched him) to humor him.

“Still on about that? I thought you’d be convinced of my authenticity by now. I’ve got a white lab coat and everything. I’m wearing scrubs.” The man says, whispering scandalized at the end. It makes Peter giggle. He’s a little amazed, actually.

The man he met at the bar was nice, sure, but he’d also very clearly had the goal of getting into Peter’s pants. It’s odd to see the same man, who’d later taken such a serious, confident tone at the club still being playful.

“Speaking of, I thought you said you were a surgeon? Very impressive, very renowned, etcetera. Why are you giving me a… non, surgical check up?” Peter asks. He looks longingly at his shoes, kind of wishing they would just float over to his feet without him having to put them on.

Stephen doesn’t seem off put by Peter’s phrasing. “All of our neurologists are swamped at the moment. They called in some off duty general practitioners to cover, but a personal friend of mine, Christine, was supposed to see you and couldn’t, so she asked me.” He leans back in his chair, then, studying Peter in the same shameless, confident way (albeit, not in the lustful way) he had at the bar. 

“I must say, I certainly wasn’t expecting to see you here. Or again, at all.” His tone lilts, pressing Peter to explain why he never called after they hit it off (and got off). 

“Yeah, about that,” Peter mumbles. He grabs his sneakers but doesn’t put them on yet, figuring it would be rude to get up or turn his back while he’s explaining. “I’m sorry. I was honestly going to call you but, I uhm..” 

“Lost the napkin?”

Peter winces, then nods and hangs his head in defeat. “I lost the napkin.”

Stephen laughs, sitting forward again, and it surprises Peter. On the rare occasion he’s seen someone he’s (intentionally) turned down again, they’ve usually been… a lot more aggressive and unhappy. 

His confusion must show, because Stephen looks at him, all sharp features and unapologetically confident and somehow just soft enough to be sincere. “I figured it was something like that, considering you had a pretty good incentive to contact me.” 

Peter narrows his eyes, but it’s not real heat. “‘Pretty good incentive’ he says. My, you’re just full of yourself, huh? That’s gotta be some kind of doctor syndrome or something. There was a Criminal Minds episode like that.” Stephen groans at his response. 

“Criminal minds?”

“What? It’s a good show!” 

“It’s completely unrealistic. Every episode has the exact same plot.”

Peter gasps, offended. “They do not!” Stephen looks unimpressed.

“There’s a bad guy, he’s killed people in a particularly gruesome way and now he’s kidnapped some poor girl. Time crunch. He’s a white man between his 20’s and 40’s, one of the ‘agents’ has some dramatic personal tie, there are hints at a subplot, Reed says something quirky and beats them all at cards on the plane. Sound familiar?” 

Peter gapes at him for a solid three seconds before composing himself, crossing his arms and huffing. “It’s still entertaining..” he pouts, petulant. Stephan rolls his eyes but chuckles at the display. 

“Well, I’m sure it will keep you plenty entertained while you get your rest. And hydration. But try to steer clear of the strawberry daiquiris.” He says, smirking as he reorders the papers on his clipboard. Peter relents, sighing, and turns to put on his shoes.

“‘s not like I picked ��em out and bought them all..” he grumbles quietly.

When he slowly rises from the bed, Stephen is still there. Standing on the opposite side of the cot, staring at him. Peter feels his cheeks flush and dear god, he cannot get hard thinking about the last time they were alone in a room together. 

He’s trying to think of some way to diffuse the tension, ask about leaving or paperwork (or the bill, dear god), the police report he needs to file or about his friend picking him up—but Stephen beats him to it. 

“Would you like to have dinner?” 

Peter stares. What was that?

“Huh?”

“I said, would you like to have dinner?” Stephen repeats, patient and unflinching, nothing modest or humorous to lighten the air. 

Peter stutters, then wets his lip and bites it, then shifts from foot to foot before nodding. 

“Yes. I’d like to have dinner with you.”

Stephen smiles. “Great.” He steps around the bed just as Peter does, bringing them closer together. “Now, technically I have your whole file right here, and I could just get your phone number off of that. But that’d be wholly unprofessional of me.”

Peter snorts, having to step back and cover his mouth so he can laugh at the man’s utter brashness. “Yeah, you’re completely correct. That would be very unprofessional. And probably illegal, I think.”

“Oh, definitely illegal.” 

Peter giggles, but then Stephen is handing him the pen he’d been writing with. Peter takes it, still grinning, yet furrows his brows in confusion. “I don’t have any paper.” 

Stephen smirks. Then he holds out his hand, palm up. When it clicks what he’s requesting and Peter snaps up to look at him, there’s a very calm, controlled smile, carefully containing a wild amount of self-satisfaction on Stephen’s face. 

“So I don’t lose it.” 

Peter rolls his eyes so dramatically it hurts, but he takes Stephen’s hand, reluctantly flattered, holding it steady in one of his own and writing with the other. Though it’s more like the older man’s one palm holds both of his stable with how unwavering it is. 

When he’s finished writing his number, he hands the pen back. “Make sure you don’t wash that hand,” he quips. Stephen hums, waving an arm past to guide Peter out of the room. 

“I promise I’ll take good care of it. The nurse will deliver your paperwork to the waiting room, and there will be an officer there as well. You’re very welcome to stay until your ride arrives.” He says. Before Peter can answer, the man is swooping down, planting a gentle kiss to his temple, and then before he can react, Stephen is disappearing down the hallway. 

Peter waits in a mildly comfortable chair and picks up his packet, report and bills and prescription of rest, all in a daze. He’s still in it when he files his report with officer Rogers and when he gets in Ned’s car around two thirty in the morning, answering a million questions and finally tipping his head back against the seat, relishing the dark and the busy quiet of New York late at night.

Two days later, after he’s got a new phone and a new wallet (and a loan in May’s good credit name to pay for his hospital visit), he gets a text that threatens to buzz out of the pocket which barely manages to muffle it.

Unknown: Dinner, Thursday. 8 o’clock. I’ll pick you up. Sound good?

Peter grins and makes a new contact.

You don’t know my address though?

Stephen: I’m sure you’ll tell me.

Fair enough. I can do Thursday at 8.

Stephen: Perfect.

Then, a moment later:

Stephen: Wear that pink shirt again, and I’ll let you pick the venue. Deal?

Peter blushes even though there’s no one there to see it, biting the inside of his cheek not to smile dumbly at his phone. 

Deal.

[authorsofparadiseroleplay]

Tales of the Wildermere: Darkness Bound, Chapter 1

Warnings for violence, kidnapping, non-consensual/psychically-induced forced arousal, and injury in this chapter. Proceed at your own risk.

Dorian Ash didn't enjoy this place, even though he was in part made from it. Even though he spent the better part of his time here. The Wildermere was a hazardous realm, full of things that can follow you back to the real world if you weren't careful. It was not an easy realm for mortals to access as a rule, but they still had a tendency to stray here sometimes, stumbling on access points in their dreams. Occasionally they found themselves trapped, perhaps caught up in the illusions and memory fogs of the place, perhaps captured by dream-feeders or other, more terrifying creatures, and sometimes simply lost, unable to find their way back to their bodies and awaken.

And there were predators from outside this realm, predators from the other side of the proverbial sea, that also hunted here. He had been on the trail of just such a predator for some time, a powerful, elusive creature that used this place as its stalking grounds, tagging victims to abduct later out of the waking world.

Tonight, Dorian was here to stop the creature, whatever the cost to himself, and to save the people it had abducted, if they were still alive to save. It was a part of who and what he was. A faction of the Dragons friendly to humanity had created him long ago to be a protector, a guardian to the mortals, eons ago when they had removed themselves from the human world to retire to the cliffs and aeries of the Wilderland, the world that existed on the other side of the Wildermere. It was his purpose, his drive. It was in his blood.

The stone in his hand looked like a cut garnet, and it gave off a faint glow and a softly melodic hum whenever he turned in the direction of a deathly frightened human in need of help, however far off that human may be. Dorian remained alert. In this place, wherever a terrified human was, there were sure to be predators close by. They were drawn to mortal fear like moths to flame. 

The glow and hum grew steadily stronger as he neared his quarry, and as he pushed through the brambled underbrush that crowded the twisted, nightmarish trees of the forest, he saw the young woman curled up in the roots of an ancient oak.

She was dressed all in white, with luminous, pale skin, vibrantly blue eyes in a sculpted, somewhat angular face, and a fall of waist-length hair the color of ravens. She had her arms wrapped around herself as she rocked and trembled, murmuring unintelligibly. He approached her and lowered himself beside her as nonthreateningly as he could manage, and she looked at him with wide, clear eyes.

“A-are you going to hurt me?” she whispered in English.

“No,” Dorian said gently. The accent of his youth still tinted his words, a hint of old Scandinavia, though it had come from a different world altogether. “I'm here to help you get home. Come with me.” He offered her a hand.

She hesitated, then reached for his hand, clasping it with her own.

Her hand was cold, like that of a corpse's, and very solid, unlike the humans who became lost here, and it pulsed with energy black as the furthest reaches of space. Dorian tried to snatch his hand away, but the woman gripped it with surprising strength. She flowed to her feet, and the image of the raven-haired beauty melted into that of a sensual nightmare. Her skin turned several shades whiter, white like bleached bone, the hollows beneath her cheekbones and around her eyes dusted with grey, and her features became sharp, angular, though her lips remained full and inviting, their shade deepening to the color of blood. Her eyes were jet black, and a pair of twisting horns grew from her head. She was fully six feet tall when she rose to her feet, and a pale, leathery tail flicked about her legs. The sheer white shift mutated into a skimpy leather bodice which crisscrossed with strategically-placed straps that barely covered her small breasts, a skirt made of writhing, fluttering shadows that was almost indecently short in the front and trailed long in the back, and a pair of black leather, spike-heeled boots that reached halfway up her thighs and gave her enough height to be a sliver above eye level with Dorian. Only her hair remained the same, still long and black and impossibly glossy.

A tidal wave of lust crashed over him, and he gasped, struggling to hold it at bay.

Still gripping his hand painfully tight, her claws digging into his flesh, she stepped closer to him, brazenly crowding him with her body. He held his ground and snarled at her, and she smiled, reaching up to touch his face with her other hand. “Such a beautiful man,” she purred, gliding one black-clawed finger over his cheekbone, tracing the stubble-dusted line of his jaw. “I think I might keep you.”

Dorian’s body became instantly, painfully hard at her featherlight touch, somehow made all the more intense by the growing pain in his hand as her claws gouged deeper. Frantically grasping for the last shreds of his control, he gnashed his teeth at her and jerked his hand free, heedless of the way her claws rent his flesh or the bright red drops of blood that blossomed on his skin. The instincts that guided his steps and provided him with insight honed in on a crystal-clear fact: this creature was the one he had been hunting.

His purpose here was at a head. His intended nature took over, and whatever seductive magic the demoness was using on him shattered like brittle glass. She took a step back, surprise flickering across her features.

“Found you, demon,” he growled, and bared his teeth in a way that only distantly resembled a grin.

He let the change take him, shifting form as quickly as the demon woman had.  It was easier in this place, with its far more malleable reality structure, than it was in the real world. Urged by curiosity long ago, he had once looked at his shifted form in a mirror. He knew that he maintained his height and build, but the color of his skin had deepened, taking on a metallic, gold-dusted bronze hue. A pair of enormous, black-feathered wings, each tipped with an obsidian claw, sprang from his back and beat the air, and his fingers also tapered into claws. His eyes burned golden in a face that now had bony ridges accentuating his cheekbones and the line of his brow, and he bared gleaming fangs at the woman, a low, animalistic growl rippling from his throat. His fingers closed around the long, wickedly sharp dagger that he had strapped to his leg. It was a gift from an old friend. A demon killer.

He just had to get close enough to use it on her.

The demon laughed. “Oh, magnificent. I knew I liked you.”

She hurled herself at Dorian before he could register that she had begun to move. Her claws raked towards his face, and he threw an arm up to block them, taking a row of long, bloody furrows down his forearm that seeped a deep scarlet into his torn sleeve.

He whirled and thrust the blade at her, but she spun out of the way, shadows whirling and whipping around her like living things. He followed her movements, matching her speed, striking and pivoting and dodging in a blindingly swift, deadly dance. Tendrils of shadow leapt out from her, reaching for him, but he scurried out of reach. The tendrils followed, darting towards him like serpents, and he slashed at them with the dagger, disintegrating them in a sweep of light, shadows fracturing and scattering like an explosion of dark glass.

The demon gasped in pain, and the shadows still undulating around her suddenly swept around her, concealing her from sight. An instant later, she was a dozen feet away, leering at him.

Star Queen's Fire! Few creatures of flesh and magic could move like that, even demons, even Dragons, and certainly not that quickly. Teleportation spells were possible, but it took hours of planning and careful quantum-geometrical calculations to pull off, and even then they were often highly dangerous even to innately magical beings. The risk of coming back wrong was too great. Dorian had seen the aftermath of some botched teleportations; he wouldn't wish that fate on his worst enemy.

And this Damiana had transported herself in the blink of an eye, none the worse for wear. What was this creature?

She prowled towards him, a feral grin twisting her lips and baring her fangs. “Oh, you beautiful, foolish man. You believed I was simply a night-wight, didn't you? A mare. A skulking little imp that sits on the chests of mortals and drinks up their fear like fine wine. But I am more than that. I am Queen Damiana of the Night Realms. I created nightmares, and all the intoxicating pleasures they bring.” She tilted her head and regarded him, hungry eyes traveling over his body. “Have you no desire to taste my delights?”

“Not interested,” Dorian rumbled, and started forward.

“But I have so, so much in store for you,” she murmured. She threw a hand out, and a ball of inky energy hurled towards him with astonishing speed. He tried to dodge, but it followed him, whipping around and striking him in the chest with the force of a freight train. He felt several ribs crack under the strength of the blow and flew backwards, slammed into a tree, and tumbled face down to the ground, the breath knocked out of him.

She was on him lightning-fast, pouncing on his back with an avian shriek, tearing at his wings with her claws. Agony ripped through him, and he screamed and bucked, thrashing his wings, and she tumbled off. He leapt to his feet and drove forward with the dagger, his eyes flaming molten gold, and she vanished in a puff of darkness again, reappearing several feet away.

“Give it up, handsome,” she crooned. “You're not going to prevail. I have the upper hand. I always have the upper hand.” Her lascivious black eyes roamed over his body again, and she licked her lips. “What a fine plaything you're going to make. I am going to greatly enjoy breaking you.”

She sent another wrecking ball of dark energy towards him, and this time, he danced to the side, stabbing at it with his dagger. The shadowy sphere parted like water, disintegrating around the blade in a spray of shrapnel that tore thin ribbons of blood all the way up his arm and lashed at his face, but the tremendous force it had generated still carried forward, unstoppable. It wrenched the dagger from his hand, snapped his wrist like a twig, hit his stomach, and sent him hurtling through the air, hitting another tree with enough force to split its trunk. He flopped bonelessly to the ground, his face in the dirt, the breath torn from his lungs even as he tried to choke out a cry of agony.

She held her arm out and he felt cold shadow-tendrils wind around his body. With a quick motion, she turned her hand palm-up, and the tendrils flipped him onto his back, twisting around his arms and legs and immobilizing them. Her fingers curled into a fist, and he found himself being dragged towards her, struggling and snarling but unable to break free.

He had one last chance. It was a terrible risk, but he was out of options.

He closed his eyes, reached out with his senses, and connected with the Wildermere.

The Wildermere is psychically connected with all dreamers, though it was created by beings much older than humanity-- older and more powerful even than the Dragons. For reasons he might never know, the Old Ones had created the Wildermere to serve as a bridge between the human world and the Wilderland, accessible to the mortal human minds that created an anchor point by which the denizens of the Wilderland could enter into the mortal world. Though it has an ostensible kind of stability to it, a strong human mind can still shape it to a degree-- at least until the Wildermere takes note of it and turns its hunger on the human.

Dorian wasn't human. In fact, he was in part made of the same stuff as the Wildermere, fashioned to be a champion of humankind, a being of immense will and mental strength who could walk between all three worlds at will. When his mind touched the world around him, it responded instantaneously, reaching back and entangling with him until it became an extension of his own consciousness, and he an extension of it.

It was not a thing he cared to do often. The Wildermere was sentient in its own right, and furiously hungry, ever greedy to expand and grow. If he did not keep full control of himself, he would be consumed, reduced to a dream-lost ghost forever haunting the forests, moors, marshes, and deserts of the place.

He lifted his head and locked his eyes on Damiana, and the root systems buried in the forest floor sprang to life, reaching up through the soil and lashing themselves around her, much in the same way she had ensnared him with her shadow-tendrils. She screamed as she was dragged to the ground, writhing and straining, her hold on Dorian falling away as he turned the hunger of the Wildermere on her, feeding it on her power, her darkness, weakening her. He rose to his feet, retrieved the dagger, and stepped closer, his face an implacable mask.

All at once, Damiana stopped struggling, and her features hardened into a mask of grim determination as she dug her will deep into the Wildermere. He felt the world around him respond to her in the same way it had to him, recognizing a being birthed from it, longing to re-merge with it.

She was strong. She was nightmarishly strong, and he wasn't certain if he could defeat her. If she took control of the Wildermere, he was finished. Dorian felt her will press back against his hold on the roots, and he shoved back with his own will, beads of sweat forming on his skin. He took another step forward, his lips peeling back in a snarl. The Wildermere roared in his head, its consciousness rushing through his body, chewing at his mind, trying to consume him. He held it at bay, forcing it to bend to his desires.

One step closer. Another step. Another.

He saw panic flash through her features as he loomed over her, and felt her double her efforts. Dorian dropped down into a crouch and raised the dagger.

She stared up at it in horror.

He plunged the dagger down.

She shouted a word and vanished within a swirl of darkness before the blade could touch her.

Dorian swore acerbically and spun, eyes sweeping the forest. The Wildermere surged within him like an incoming tide, bursting through his defenses. He would need to push it out of his mind soon or he would be lost.

The demon woman was gone. He could feel that clearly through his connection to the realm.

He sank to his knees, grimacing, and with a monumental effort of will purged the Wildermere from his mind. It poured out of him like a river emptying itself into the ocean, merging with the world around him once again. He let his human form flow into place once more so he appeared once again as a dark-haired, well-built man in his late thirties, with chiseled cheekbones, a dusting of beard growth on his jaw, and amber eyes.

He knelt there for a moment, panting, his many injuries throbbing jolts of pain through his whole body, too exhausted to consider moving.

A voice drifted on the wind. A woman's voice, moaning softly, the sound strained with terror-laced need. Dorian whipped his head around, on high alert. He retrieved the stone from his pocket and saw that it was still glowing, still humming. Whomever the stone had been guiding him towards was still here; it was likely that the demon had been tormenting the poor soul, and he had stumbled on her while searching for her victim.

He dragged himself to his feet and started in the direction of the moans.

He found her bound to a tree with her arms over her head. She wore a sheer white shift-- exactly like the one that Damiana had worn in her disguise-- that revealed the lovely, generous curves of her body. Her head was bowed as she whimpered, spilling a wealth of golden hair down over her front.

She jerked her head up as Dorian approached and stared at him with wide blue eyes set in a delicate face. Soft, mewling sounds left her lips as she tried to shrink away from him.

“Don't be afraid,” Dorian murmured. He moved closer, still wary. This woman was probably the real victim and not another illusion, but he needed to be sure.

Gently, he brushed a lock of hair away from her face, letting his fingers graze her cheekbone. Her skin was warm and soft and human, partially immaterial as most mortals are in the Wildermere. She gazed up at him with frightened eyes, but her jaw was set in a way that hinted at courage and defiance. In that moment, every fiber of his being awoke with the deeply-ingrained instinct to protect, to shield, to heal. Her fear and suffering tore at him like the claws of the creature he had just fought.

“What are you going to do to me?” Her voice broke on the question, but she kept her eyes locked with his. Whatever the demon woman had done to her, she had not been broken.

“I'm going to help you get home,” he said. “I'm not going to let anyone else hurt you. I promise.”

A sob tore from her throat, and she lowered her head. He passed a hand down her silken hair, pushing a soft, soothing energy through his palm. She trembled, but some of the tension left her body, and she leaned into his touch. “Help me,” she whispered. “Oh, God, please get me out of here.”

“I will.” He used the dagger to cut her bonds, and she sagged into his arms as if the ropes had been the only thing holding her upright. He held her for a moment, stroking her hair, then asked, “What's your name?”

She tilted her head back to look up at him, and a frown darkened her lovely features as she noticed the cuts on his face and his rapidly swelling wrist. “Angelica. You’re hurt.”

Gods, she was beautiful. She seemed lit from within like her namesake, sweet and untainted even by this nightmare. Again, he felt a surge of fierce protectiveness towards her, and a burning attraction that he refused to give quarter to. This was not the time or place. There may never be a time or place. She seemed to belong to an entirely different world than his own dark, violent home.

Still, though, it had been ages since he had been with somebody, sharing lives and intimacy with love and trust. 

He shook his head, partly to clear his mind of that train of thought, and partly in reply to Angelica’s statement. “It’ll heal.” 

“But I should--”

He shook his head, then gave her a reassuring smile and held out his good hand. “It’ll heal,” he said again. “Come with me, Angelica, and I'll take you home.”

She hesitated, worrying at her bottom lip with her teeth, then relented and took his hand. “What’s your name?”

“Better you don’t know.”

She stopped walking and glared at him. “Okay, mister tall, dark, and mysterious. I won’t press you for your name if you let me take a look at... all of this. I’m a medical student; I’m starting my ER residency next year.” She reached for his arm. “I... heard you fighting that creature. I don’t know how you beat her, but I’m grateful you did.”

Dorian let her take his arm. “Your gratitude is appreciated, and I promise to see a healer to make certain everything mended properly. I’m sure your medical knowledge is sufficient for the care of humans, but my physiology is different. My body heals itself very quickly.” 

“Can’t hurt to look anyway.” Carefully, with hands that still shook a little, Angelica turned his arm this way and that, peering at the cuts, probing his broken wrist with expert fingers. Though his skin was still streaked with blood, the wounds themselves had already closed, leaving light scabs, and the bones in his wrist and his rib cage were slowly, nearly imperceptibly shifting back into place and fusing. He would need to sleep to heal fully, but he was in no danger now.

“See?” Dorian said softly. “I’ll be fine. Angelica, we need to move.”

“You should at least let me put that arm in a sling. It needs to be immobilized or it won’t heal properly.” 

“That isn’t necessary.”

“Like hell it’s not!”

“Angelica,” he said, “will you please come with me before something else tries to take a turn at us?” In his present condition, he wasn’t sure if he could handle another attack, let alone protect the innocent woman accompanying him. They didn’t have time to wait around while she fussed over his injuries.

Her glare could melt a glacier, and even Dorian shifted uncomfortably under it. “Fine. Be an idiot.” 

She fell into step beside him, marching with her chin up without so much as a glance his way, and he guided her through the forest, searching out the soft, moss-covered paths that would be gentle on her bare feet. A glimmer of insight ignited in Dorian’s mind as they walked-- Angelica had wanted to feel useful, to feel like she could contribute and take an active part in this situation, instead of being the damsel in distress that had to be rescued. She had felt powerless, tied to that tree, unable to defend herself from the demon’s torments, and wanted to reclaim her sense of power.

He reached out to touch her arm and said, “Keep watch as we walk, please? Medical professionals have an uncanny way of noticing tiny details that are out of place, and I might not notice these things since I’m searching for the portal.”

Her eyes widened a fraction as she looked at him, but then the determined, clinically detached expression returned to her face, and she nodded. “I’m on it.”

They walked side by side for a ways, Angelica scanning the forest for potential threats while Dorian split his attention between watching for signs of stalking predators and homing in on the way out. The portal burned bright on his senses as they drew near it, and he turned to look at her. “Go through. You'll wake up, and this will seem like only a bad dream. It would be better if you believed that.”

She looked at the drifting, twisting white tendril-lights of the portal, then back at him. “Was it a dream?”

He hesitated, conflicted. On the one hand, she would be safer if she didn’t delve too deeply in this world. But on the other hand, once a mortal crosses into this place, they always bring back a piece of it with them. And there are... things... in the Wildermere and beyond that might be attracted to that. “No.”

“I didn’t think so.”

“Stay out of this place, Angelica. Don't step through any more mirrors in your dreams. They always lead here.”

She chewed on her lip for a few seconds, then asked, "Will I see you again?”

He shook his head. “No. It's better that way. You don't want to be a part of my world.”

The flash of irritation returned to her eyes. “Don’t tell me what I do and don’t want.” 

“You shouldn’t want it. My paths always lead here, in this place. It isn’t a good place.”  

She nodded, lowering her eyes for a few seconds, then glanced back up at him, tremulous smile playing at her lips. “Thank you. For saving me.”

He gave her a faint smile in return. “Go. Don't look back. Don't hesitate; you might accidentally leave a part of yourself here.”

Angelica turned to face the portal, took a deep breath, and stepped through, leaving Dorian standing alone in the forest.