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feelingfredly · 4 years

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The Hunting of the Snark... I Mean Spark

Part 1 of What I Tell You Three Times Is True

Peter listened as the water stopped and various cabinets in his bathroom were opened and closed and waited for his guest to reappear. Stiles, scrubbed red from the shower, walked into the room rubbing viciously at his hair with a towel. The fragrance of borrowed shampoo clung to him even more tightly than the damp fabric of Peter’s bathrobe and seeing the young man like that, covered head to toe in Peter’s things, in Peter’s scent, caused his wolf to lift its head and rumble in satisfaction, even if the reason the boy was in his den was less than optimal.

“Three times, Peter.” Frustration sharpened Stiles’s voice, pulling the man’s attention back from his wolf’s wanderings. “You know what that means.”

Peter knew. One is an incident, two is a coincidence, three's a pattern, and four is enough for a warrant. Not that they could get a warrant, even if they did end up with a fourth victim. It didn’t matter to Stiles, though. He, like his father, was a cop at heart—protect and serve was etched in their bones. Usually, Stiles also had a streak of ruthless practicality that balanced that idealism out, but this time was different. Peter hoped it didn’t come back to bite him in the ass.

“Proving the pattern to the rest of the pack is going to be… difficult.”

Amber eyes rolled and Peter smothered a smile. It still surprised him how much pleasure Stiles’s snark generated in him. Like calling to like.

“Tell me something I don’t know.” Stiles flung his towel at the hamper and missed. From four feet away. Peter shook his head. How the boy had survived this long in a world full of predators was truly a mystery. “Lydia will believe me. Probably. And Danny. But…”

“But they’re not wolves.” Peter nodded and leaned back in his chair. “They aren’t the ones who’re going to want to believe it’s possible in the first place.”

Stiles walked to the corner of the desk that dominated the office and propped one hip on it, everything about his posture telegraphing his irritation with the situation.

“Scott’s going to think I’m crazy—literally—and he’ll suspect anything coming from you because you’re clearly still trying to manipulate him.” His lip curled a fraction and Peter wasn’t sure if it was the beginning of a smile or a snarl. “That means we’re going to have to go at the problem sideways, again, because as much as I’d like to say he wouldn’t go there again, I’m sure you’re with me on the Never Going Back to Eichen bandwagon.”

Peter gave his own eyeroll at that. “Our True Alpha does have a limited repertoire of responses, and you’re right, Eichen House is not on my list of spa retreat destinations. My question for you is simply: since we know he won’t listen to reason, why bother trying to convince him? It isn’t as if the people Hengstrom is using aren’t willing. If Scott wants to throw in with the crazy mage, why not let him?”

Stiles shifted his weight, swinging a lean leg absently. “I guess it’s the lying that gets me, because I don’t believe he doesn’t know exactly what his miracle cure does. You can’t wield that kind of magic if you don’t understand it intimately. That leaves two options,” he held up one long finger. “One, he’s leaving details out because he doesn’t think they’re important—which would be stupidly shortsighted—or two,” he held up a second finger, “he knows the details are important and he’s not telling people on purpose, which leads to another whole line of questions about why he’s keeping them secret and what he’s getting out of the de-wolfing process that’s so important that he doesn’t want to risk scaring his victims away.”

Peter nodded. When the mage arrived, he’d introduced himself to the local Alpha and had bemoaned the fact that Deaton wasn’t currently in residence because he wanted to share his new skill with the druid. Invoking the emissary’s name worked like magic—all puns intended—and the True Alpha had warmly welcomed the man to the territory and had immediately begun questioning him about this new and wonderful spellwork he’d invented. Hengstrom had been hesitant to speak of it, saying he didn’t want to step on Deaton’s toes—but Scott reacted the way he always did when there was something new and shiny that he wanted: he poked and prodded and wheedled and insisted until the mage caved and laid out the framework of what he called his “life’s achievement.”

It was delicate work and Peter had been impressed with Hengstrom’s ability to play the young Alpha right up until he uttered the phrase “werewolf curse.” McCall’s spine had stiffened and red crawled up his neck as he ducked his head and looked away, shame and self-loathing oozing from every pore. Every wolf in the room stiffened, feeling the negativity of their leader through the pack bonds, and Peter was no different. His gums itched and his fingers ached, claws and fangs closer to the surface than they should be, and he knew his wolf was feeling threatened in a way that born wolves weren’t supposed to feel.

The mage promised Scott, and any other bitten wolves that were interested, the chance to be human again, and he knew immediately what the True Alpha’s reaction was going to be. Hell, anyone with a braincell that had known the boy for more than two seconds knew what he was going to do. He never even paused to think how giving up his wolf would affect the rest of the pack. No, McCall was consistent—he wanted what he wanted and screw anyone that might get in the way of him getting it.

He did, at least, ask a few questions and the mage passed his minimalist lie detector test—Yes, he’d performed the rite dozens of times. The rite had 100% efficacy. All the people he helped went back to their human lives with nary a trace of wolf left in them. Here’s an oddly convenient list; call them if you want to.—And then the idiot didn’t think, didn’t pause, didn’t hesitate for a minute, he simply reached out and swept the mage into the biggest hug Beacon Hills had ever seen, and then had run off to tell Kira the good news.

Stiles and Peter watched the interview silently, doubt clear on both of their faces, but once their Alpha had made his approval clear, Stiles shook the man’s hand briefly, took the list of “cured” that was proffered, and directed the mage to the hotel in town that the pack had an arrangement with.

Then Stiles went to work.

It took the Spark six hours to contact most of the people on the list, but there were a few he hadn’t been able to get through to. Finally, one number that had been calling incessantly—his magic nagging at him that it was important—picked up and the tearful woman on the other end informed him that yes, her husband, Oscar, had undergone Hengstrom’s procedure and had been thrilled with the results. Unfortunately, he’d died a few months later. They hadn’t been able to determine a cause of death—he simply didn’t wake up one morning. It was possible that the procedure had been hard on his heart or something, but no one could really say. She was sorry she couldn’t be more help.

After another six hours he’d found two more people who’d had their wolves removed who had mysteriously fallen ill afterwards. One was currently in a coma, and the other had been committed to a mental institution after having attempted to kill his family, the whole time screaming for them to kill him, please kill him. That he couldn’t stop it. It wouldn’t let him.

That report reminded Stiles too much of his possession by the Nogitsune; he and Peter were on a plane the next morning. Three hours and several Jedi mind tricks after landing, they’d gotten to visit the last victim… and the minor demon that was squatting in his soul. Peter had struggled with seeing the man strapped to his bed, flashbacks of his own time imprisoned in a similar bed with nothing free to move but his head setting his teeth on edge, and Stiles… well, the Spark had his own fight to fight. His spark hovered just beneath his skin, setting the boy almost aglow, and while his wolf was used to the temptation, the demon was immediately overwhelmed with hunger.

The body on the bed strained and lurched against its bindings as they listened to it rave about how Stiles was perfect, how the fire under his skin was nice but the darkness around his heart was beautiful and infinite and vicious, how he had a demon-shaped hole in his soul that just cried out to be filled. Stiles waited as every word left a wound behind, and Peter could smell the blood on him as he bit his lips to remain silent. Finally, the demon released its host deciding that it was worth giving up the body it had for the chance of controlling the power of a Spark. Peter sucked in a breath, terrified that they wouldn’t make it out of the hospital without a demonic stowaway, but then his impossible, incredible boy burned the creature out of existence in the flash of an eye before it could jump bodies. He listened as Stiles’s breath caught on a silent sob in his throat, and Peter ached to gather the bowstring-taut Spark into his arms and tell him that yes he was perfect, that the demon had no idea how beautiful his darkness truly was because he used it to defend the ones he loved, that if there was a hole in his soul Peter would crawl into it and fill it and wrap him up in protective arms, keeping him close, and safe, and his… but he knew that all it would take would be one uninvited touch and Stiles would shatter, so he kept his hands to himself, and bided his time.

A moment later the victim woke from his possession in grateful tears, but when Stiles explained that he couldn’t repair the holes in the man’s spirit that had allowed the demon to take up residence in the first place, he insisted they leave him in the hospital, that it was where he wanted to stay, where he needed to stay. He’d do anything to protect his family from going through that nightmare again.

Stiles told him that evening that he suspected the man wouldn’t be around long enough to regret that decision; his life force was already leaking out through the holes in his aura. Listening to the Spark whimper in his sleep as he thrashed on the hotel bed that night, Peter knew Stiles would regret the decision enough for the both of them.

One good thing came out of the whole nightmare. After explaining what had happened to her husband, the last victim’s wife was more than willing to answer their questions, and she was much more expansive than the mage. She told them that Hengstrom only pursued weres that had been changed within the past five years, claiming that anyone that had been a werewolf longer than that wouldn’t ever be able to truly erase the behaviors they’d learned. He’d asked other questions—where her husband fit in the pack hierarchy, how he’d been turned, whether his wife was a wolf—before agreeing to remove her husband’s wolf, but that the one thing that seemed most important to him was whether they were going leave the territory after the procedure. He implied that continuing contact with the members of the pack would hinder her husband’s healing process. He said that her husband’s scent would change, and the other wolves wouldn’t be able to trust him anymore and that it would be safer for everyone if they cut ties completely, but he’d also said that any exposure to the supernatural would make it harder for her husband to transition back to his human life. She hadn’t questioned it at the time, but it had made the whole situation more difficult when he’d started showing signs of deterioration because she didn’t have the pack as a support system and since they didn’t have their emissary available to ask for advice.

Oh, and their emissary hadn’t been around when Hengstrom had arrived, either.

Stiles had looked at Peter at that point and quirked an eyebrow, an entire conversation in the tiny movement. Who knew they would ever actually be sorry that Alan Deaton wasn’t around?

Stiles stopped swinging his leg suddenly. “Did Scott ever mention that Kira was a kitsune?”

Peter thought back over the conversation he’d witnessed and shook his head. “No. Hengstrom asked if he was mated to another wolf and Scott said no, but that was as far as it went. Why?”

He paused and raised his eyes to the Spark’s as the penny dropped. Oh. Ohhh.

Scott was going to have a problem. Kira wasn’t a wolf, but she was a kitsune but more importantly—she was pack. The only thing McCall valued more than his own vaunted humanity was his mate, and after the youngest Argent died, he’d become even more protective of the little fox.

Stiles grinned, sharp and vulpine, clearly ready to hunt. “I think we need to have a little chat with our Alpha’s mate.”

Peter grinned back letting his own fangs drop a fraction and resting a heavy hand on Stiles’s knee. “You know, sweetheart, I think you’re right.”

***

Kira wasn’t alone when they got there, but it could have been worse. Ms. Yukimura wasn’t a fan of Stiles’s—she still saw too much of Void in him to ever be comfortable—but she would listen more than Scott would, so Peter considered it a win.

“And you destroyed the demon? You’re positive?” She lifted a delicate hand and poured another cup of tea. If Peter hadn’t been watching so closely, he’d have missed the fractional tightening of muscles in her fingers.

“As positive as I can be,” Stiles replied. “I know it isn’t in Peter, and I know it wasn’t in Mr. Anderson when we left him. If you’d be so kind as to make sure I haven’t brought him along with me, I would be… grateful.”

It cost the boy something to make the request, but when the older woman’s eyes settled on him and she nodded once, the silent stress that had been hiding in his spine melted away and Peter could almost feel a sigh of relief pass over him.

“There is nothing… new in your aura, Spark,” she said with a dip of her head, and Peter had to fight back a growl at the cautionary phrasing and silent implication that there was something extra in his aura already, but that was a fight for another day. “The demon must, then, have truly been vanquished. Your skill has grown. I congratulate you.”

Stiles forced himself to dip his head in acceptance. His skills had grown through necessity, and so much of that necessity could be laid at this woman’s feet. It was amazing that he was even able to stay in the same room. Peter wasn’t sure he could have.

“I am simply sorry that I wasn’t able to do more for Mr. Anderson. As I said, the procedure that Hengstrom subjected him to has left his spirit shredded. He will die; it’s just a matter of how long it will take.”

Kira twisted her hands in her lap. “You’re sure? There isn’t anything else that could’ve caused the damage?”

Stiles shook his head. “I’m sorry, Kira, but you know I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t sure. I know how much this means to Scotty, and yeah, him giving up his wolf would throw the pack into chaos, but we’ve dealt with chaos before and survived. I wouldn’t take this chance away from him on a hunch. The problem is that because of the chaos we’ve been through,” he threw a hard glance at the elder kitsune, “Scott doesn’t trust my judgment. He thinks I’m paranoid.” He let out a bark of laughter. “He isn’t wrong. But neither am I about this.”

Kira pushed her hair behind her ear and sighed. “I believe you. I was talking to mom before you came about how something about this just felt off. Hearing you explain what you’ve found just makes that feeling stronger.”

Peter sat back and crossed his legs. “So, how do we make your husband listen to the truth?”

Kira quirked a lip and tilted her chin to one side, her inner fox clear and sharp. “The way I see it, the only way he’s going to believe it is if it comes from Hengstrom himself.”

Stiles’s whole body stilled, his normal state of constant movement frozen. “I like where you’re going with this, but it’s going to be tricky.”

Kira looked at her mother and they both smiled their trickster-kitsune smiles. “Leave that to us.”

***

In the end, it was surprisingly simple. Painful, but simple.

“You should let him try this on Peter, first.” Stiles said, innocence personified.

Scott perked up. “On Peter? But he wouldn’t want to…” he swallowed what he’d been intending to say and turned to look at the mage. “Could you actually do that? Take the wolf from a born wolf?”

Hagen Hengstrom looked as Swedish as his name sounded. Tall, blond, buff—he didn’t look like any of the mages Peter had ever met, but then Stiles himself didn’t look like them, either. His blue eyes were pale and clear and there was something old and cold in them that Peter didn’t want to be close to, but he was bait, so, he stepped forward.

Hengstrom shook his head, one fist tightening minutely. “No. Definitely not. There is nothing in him that isn’t infiltrated with wolf. He’d go mad without it.”

Stiles snorted. “Like we’d be able to tell the difference.”

Scott looked surprised that he would say such a thing, but then laughed. “I suppose you’re right. Not much to compare it to as far as sanity goes.”

Peter forced himself not to snarl at the boy and let Stiles go on.

“I mean, if the procedure is 100% effective…” he left the sentence hanging, and the mage stepped right into it.

“It is 100% effective,” he insisted, “it’s just that his wolf is so embedded in him that it would rip his soul to pull it out.”

Stiles tilted his head and raised an innocent eyebrow. “Rip his soul? That doesn’t sound good.”

Kira shifted closer to Scott and put an arm around his waist. “No. No it doesn’t.”

Scott looked down at his wife and frowned. “You said before that it didn’t hurt.”

Hengstrom froze and then shook his head. “That isn’t what…”

Scott frowned harder. “You said you’d performed this rite dozens of times.”

Hengstrom nodded enthusiastically. “Yes! I’ve done this dozens—hundreds—of times. It does exactly what I’ve promised.”

Stiles made a non-committal sound. “But actually, all you said was that it removed the wolf and the people went back to being human after. You didn’t say anything about whether they were healthy and happy, did you?”

Kira tugged on Scott’s shirt. “Did he?”

Scott shrugged. “I don’t actually remember. I was so excited by what he was telling me that I don’t think I asked.” He turned back to the mage who looked decidedly paler under his golden tan. “What happens to the people after you take their wolves? Are they healthy? Can they… have families? Does it mess with any of that?”

The mage frowned and took his time before answering. “I don’t stay in touch with all of the people I’ve helped, so I don’t know exactly how they all are. But I can assure you the rite did exactly what it was supposed to do, and they were all completely human afterwards.”

Stiles made another noise. “I’m sure it’s fine, Kira,” he waved his hand between Hengstrom and Scott, “I mean, if there was a problem I’m sure Deaton could fix it, and the pack would be here to…”

Hengstrom lurched forward, hand up. “Um, that’s not…” he swallowed, “I mean, I’m certain that Druid Deaton is very skilled, but this magic is specialized, and he wouldn’t be familiar with the process. It’s best if the blessed can accept the return of their human status completely, make a clean break with their previous packs and limit their exposure to the supernatural. As humans they’re so much more susceptible to injury and you wouldn’t want to endanger your family that way unnecessarily, would you? You and your wife would be able to move on, have children, start your own veterinary practice without all of this hanging over your head.”

Scott’s frown had deepened to the point that Peter thought he could get a playing card to stick in the crease between his eyebrows.

“My wife is supernatural.” He hugged Kira tighter to him and Hengstrom frowned.

“But you said you weren’t mated to another werewolf!”

Kira looked at him, adorable confusion on her face. “He’s not. I’m a kitsune. I’m surprised you couldn’t feel my magic. Dr. Deaton says it’s unmistakable. Plus… I’m pack.”

Hengstrom looked bewildered, wondering how things had gotten so out of hand.

At that point Liam stepped forward, his back stiff and eyes slitted. “It seems to me that there’s more to this rite than you initially let on. So, tell me just one thing: If Scott lets you take his wolf, what will happen to his Alpha spark?”

Peter forced his face to stillness. Finally, someone was asking the right questions.

The mage frowned. “I’m not sure. I’ve never removed the wolf from an Alpha before.”

The whole pack took a step towards Scott, suddenly sensing the threat to their Alpha.

“You don’t know?” Liam sounded strangled and he turned to look at Scott. “You mean you didn’t ask? You were just going to let him take your wolf and leave us all omegas?”

Scott deflated a little. “I just figured it would go to the next person in line in the pack. Maybe you. Maybe,” he frowned, “maybe Peter. I mean, he’s been an Alpha before. Not a good one, but still.”

Liam was livid. “You were just joking about him being crazy, Scott! Plus, you’re a fucking True Alpha! It isn’t like it’s got a line to revert to. Maybe it just disappears into the ether it came from, and then what would happen?”

The mage was slowly stepping away from the angry young wolf, trying not to draw attention to himself, but Peter’s Spark was having none of it.

“All politics aside, the thing I worry most about is what would happen to Scott’s soul if you ripped the True Alpha spark out of it. I mean, think about it Scotty. The only reason you’re an Alpha at all is because of your soul---it’s got to be tangled up tightly in there. If there is, what did you call it? Tearing? When you remove the wolf? What? Does it leave holes in his soul or something? Mess with his aura? Is that why he shouldn’t be around supernatural stuff afterwards, because something could get in through those holes?”

Kira took her cue like a professional, one dainty hand flying to her mouth as she gasped in fear for her beloved. “Oh my God, that can’t be, right? Nothing could get into his soul, could it?”

Hengstrom knew he was trapped. A room full of wolves would hear if he lied. “It’s… possible. But, in a world of magic anything is possible.”

Kira moved to stand in front of her husband. “I’d think you’d have led with that fact. As a matter of fact, the fact that you didn’t makes me wonder what else you don’t tell people about your precious rite.”

Mason gave a side-long look to the man. “Makes me wonder what he gets out of it.”

Peter allowed himself a smirk. Mason certainly had potential. He would have to spend a little more time with the boy. The True Alpha needed someone who could see through false altruism that didn’t have a history with him. It would be much easier to get him to listen, then.

A rumble from the back of the room drew his attention. Ah. Reinforcements.

Alan Deaton swept into the room with all the gravitas of an opening night diva, every eye upon him, and he glided to a stop beside his wide-eyed protégé.

“Remind me never to accept an invitation to a conclave I am unfamiliar with, Scott. It always seems to lead to trouble,” he said, dark eyes resting on the now surrounded mage.

Peter wondered if that meant that the druid had been lured away somehow, but that could be sussed out later. Right now, he wanted to know what the man intended to do with the interloper.

Deaton was a terrible emissary, but he wasn’t a bad magic user and when Peter saw his eyes widen and a rim of green flash in them, he couldn’t help but wish he, too, could see things with druid’s sight.

Whatever it was, it didn’t make the man happy.

“Scott?” The druid didn’t look away from Hengstrom. “Have you allowed your guest access to you or any others in the pack?”

Scott shook his head, a little sheepishly. “No. We were about to get to that. Lucky for me, Kira was here. She seemed to know right away that something was weird.” He hugged his wife tightly, and the little fox met Peter’s eyes and smiled. Leave it to her, indeed. It was a good reminder never to get on the woman’s bad side. He looked at Stiles and they shared an incredulous look that quickly devolved into twin smiles of satisfaction. Working together like this behind the scenes was often frustrating, but the connection it built between the two of them wasn’t something Peter was ever going to willingly give up.

“I believe Mage Hengstrom and I have some things to discuss. I’d appreciate it if a few of your pack members would escort him over to my offices. Then, I think you all could do with a quick check up. Just to make sure that there isn’t anything… missing.” His voice softened. “Or extra.”

A noisy exodus followed, leaving Stiles and Peter alone. Together. Again.

“She’s impressive,” Peter nodded his head in the direction of Kira’s disappearing back. “I don’t know what she sees in him.”

Stiles laughed then, only a little bitterly. “She sees what I once saw in him. A bottomless well of faith and singlemindedness that sometimes,” he sighed as he watched everyone leave, “sometimes feels like devotion. I hope she never loses it.”

Peter looked at the Spark and wished with all his heart that he could erase the heartache that Scott McCall’s fickleness had caused. Since he can’t, though, he will make do with replacing fake devotion with constancy, and human fickleness with a loyalty that the wolf-kings of old would bow down to.

“Since Alan has the mage under control, what do you say to a milkshake? My treat.”

Stiles smiled then, weak but sincere. “And curly fries?”

Peter wrapped his arm around the Spark and guided him towards the door. “Of course, sweetheart. What kind of man do you take me for?”

Stiles’s smile got a little more mischievous and Peter rolled his eyes. “Don’t answer that.”

The smile brightened even more. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Zombiewolf.”

And well, if the boy’s heart stuttered on the lie Peter wasn’t going to call him out for it.

***

Peter listened to the water falling in his shower and the one monopolizing it. Again.

“Three times, Peter!” Stiles was ranting. “I told him. I told him after the first time. I told him again after the second time, but this is three times.” The water stopped and the glass door opened with a tiny squeak. Peter imagined what Stiles looked like, skin red from the heat of the shower and his own frustration, and wished that just once the boy was flushed and rosy in his shower for a better reason than Scott fucking McCall’s incompetence.

Peter lounged on his bed, legs stretched out in front of him, ankles crossed, and waited with calculated patience. It didn’t take long.

Stiles stomped in wrapped in Peter’s robe, a wave of scented steam swirling around him and a prickle of agitated magic washed through the room causing the fine hair on Peter’s arms to stand. The Spark was actually angry this time.

“I can’t do this anymore.” Stiles stomped into Peter’s closet, opening and shutting drawers more violently than necessary, looking for something to wear. Peter didn’t mind. His wolf loved seeing the boy in his clothes, and if he’d bought a few things that ran a little smaller just for the Spark to “steal” well, his tailor didn’t need to know.

“Can’t do what anymore, dear heart,” he asked, aiming for calm. He watched the shadows move on the floor as the boy stripped just around the corner from him. It was a good thing the Spark couldn’t hear his heart. He’d probably run out of the apartment faster than he ran from the troll earlier.

Peter was always the scariest monster when it came down to it.

“I can’t keep trying to save his ass and having him ignore me. I can’t keep manipulating things from stage left hoping that it works out and that nobody fucking dies.” He stomped out of the closet, a pair of Peter’s jeans slung low on his hips and a V-neck that was a size too large falling off one shoulder. He tossed his towel at the hamper. He missed. Again. At least some things never changed.

“Mason almost died tonight, Peter,” Stiles flopped, all long legs and arms like a puppet with its strings cut, on the end of the bed. “If Liam hadn’t doubled back for him, he wouldn’t have had a chance. And it could have all been avoided if Scott had just listened to me.”

Peter rumbled sympathetically. Stiles needed comfort, not fuel for the Scott McCall Is A Terrible Friend fire.

The Spark sighed and dropped back onto the bed, exhaustion finally catching up with him. He’d gotten better in the years since Peter bit Scott. He was stronger. Had more stamina. Had magic to reinforce his bat when he swung it, and potions to help him heal faster when he didn’t manage to get through a fight unscathed… but he was still human, and he was tired.

“You did what you could, sweetheart,” Peter tried to console, but it was hard. He’d love to point out every flaw, every shortcoming, every insult and betrayal, but his boy was smart. He already knew all those things; pointing them out would just hurt. “It’s Scott. It isn’t like he’s finally going to learn a lesson from all of this. Deaton will support him no matter what, and until either he or Kira force him to change, he won’t.”

Stiles didn’t say anything for a long time. If his breathing hadn’t stayed the same Peter would have thought he’d fallen asleep.

“Scott won’t change, so it’s up to me.” The words were soft, but very final sounding.

“What’s up to you? Do you have a plan for forcing him to change?”

Short curls shook in a negative. “I can’t change him, but I can change me.”

Peter’s wolf growled in the back of his mind at the thought of Stiles changing. He was perfect. He shouldn’t have to change because his packmate—his so called Alpha—wasn’t worth his teeth.

“And how do you intend to change? More Spark studies?”

Stiles rolled onto his side and gave Peter an assessing look. “I got a call from a pack outside of Las Vegas last week.”

Peter stiffened and curled his fingers so that Stiles wouldn’t see his popped claws. NO. He couldn’t leave. Peter wouldn’t have it. He’d…

“Calm down, Zombiewolf,” Stiles said, sitting the rest of the way up and smirking a little. “It wasn’t like that. They aren’t looking for a new packmate, they just need a little help.”

Peter felt the panic drain away, and a new kind of caution take its place. Trust his boy to read him so well. He’d have to be more careful.

“What kind of help?”

“Seems they have themselves an aqrabuamelu.” Stiles watched him for recognition, and Peter couldn’t help feeling satisfaction when the Spark looked proud that he nodded.

“Scorpion man. Not native to the area… how’d it get to Nevada?”

Stiles shrugged carelessly, the V-neck hanging even lower to expose the shadow of a collarbone. If Peter didn’t know better, he’d think the Spark was teasing him. “What happens in Vegas rarely stays in Vegas, dude. I don’t know for sure, but I’d bet someone brought the fucker in for some sort of supernatural freak show and it got away from them.” He grinned, looking all of ten years old and full of mischief. “Like the alligators in the sewers where someone flushes an overgrown pet.”

Peter shook his head. The boy was a menace. “I’m assuming they don’t know how to handle the creature?”

“Got it in one. They’ve heard about our successes in driving off weird monsters and were wondering if we could help. I thought about telling Scott and seeing if he wanted to curry some favor with a relatively close pack, but…”

Peter watched and waited. Then he prompted. “But…?”

“But… I was thinking maybe I’d go out there and take care of it for them. Maybe negotiate a non-treaty kind of fee for assistance. Like a contract hit without the Mob, I mean, Pack involvement.”

It wasn’t a bad idea. As long as McCall didn’t get his knickers in a knot over Stiles killing things again. That problem didn’t seem to be that much of a factor in Stiles’s calculations, though.

“McCall won’t like it. He’s made it clear how he feels about this kind of extermination.” There was no judgment in his tone, but Peter couldn’t let him commit to something like this without being sure he knew what he was getting into.

“Well, that shouldn’t be a problem. Not after yesterday.” Stiles’s scent soured under the cucumber-citrus bodywash.

“Yesterday?”

The Spark flopped back onto the bed again, this time more hopeless than boneless. “Yeah. When I was trying to convince Scott about my plan for the trolls, he said it again.”

Fuck. That idiot.

“You know he doesn’t mean it.” Peter tried to soothe, but he was just a little too angry on Stiles’s behalf for it to be truly soothing.

“Oh, he meant it. And I know he meant it because of this.” A long arm shot up from the bed and the Spark shook the thin black leather band dangling from it. “I made it last new moon. A charm bracelet to beat all charm bracelets. Take that, Pandora!” There was an almost hysterical edge to his tone. “The emissary of the Parker pack taught me how to make it. She uses one to allow her to stand on equal footing with her wolves—she can scent them and listen to their hearts with it, even though she’s human.”

Peter couldn’t stop the rising of his eyebrows as he stared at the innocent looking thing. Stiles had been able to hear his heart. To read his scent. His brain spun in denial. For a month.

Stiles hadn’t said anything, though, so he would do the same. Maybe he could salvage things.

“So, you listened to his heart when the two of you were planning?” He tried to steer the conversation back onto slightly less terrifying ground.

“You mean when he told me, again, that I shouldn’t worry about planning because I wasn’t pack?” Pain was threaded through Stiles’s words, but under it there was a clear note of just being done with it all. “Yep. And Scott’s heart was clear as day---not a flutter to be heard. He truly believes I’m not pack, and if the Alpha says I’m not pack, then I’m not pack. That means, among other things, that that self-same Alpha can’t tell me what to do. As a best friend Scott could still do that, but he hasn’t been a friend, not to mention a best friend, in a long time I think.”

Peter didn’t argue. The brat had been many things over the past few years, but a good friend was rarely on that list, and even more rarely as far as it applied to Stiles.

“I don’t believe McCall will see it that way,” Peter poked at the argument gingerly, trying to see where Stiles was going with this. “Is that why you’re telling me? Do you want me to cover for you while you’re away?”

He couldn’t help feeling a little hurt by the idea that Stiles would be moving on without him, but he knows that getting out of Beacon Hills even for a little while would only do the boy good. As long as he intended to come back.

“No,” Stiles shook his head and levered himself up and off the bed, whiskey brown eyes fixed on his in the lamplight. “I want you to come with me. I mean… how often are you going to get a chance to face off with an aqrabuamelu? Plus, Vegas. Who wouldn’t want to go to Vegas?”

Peter’s wolf sneered. Who wouldn’t want to surround themselves with perfumed, alcohol soaked, despair ridden people in buildings full of too-bright lights, and bells and whistles shrieking twenty-four hours a day?

“Sounds like just what the doctor ordered.” He found himself saying, even knowing that the Spark would hear the lie. “When do we leave?”

Stiles grinned—a wide, true thing that made Peter’s chest tighten. “Well, first we need to swing by Home Depot. I need to buy a fuckton of diatomaceous earth.”

***

They stood in the Vegas packhouse, a wolf and a Spark, covered in diatomaceous earth and blood.

“I cannot thank you enough for everything you’ve done, Spark Stilinski,” the Alpha would have bowed if there had been an ounce less steel in her spine, Peter was sure. As it was, she dipped her head in thanks and held out a leather satchel full of goods. “I know you hadn’t expected to walk into a hostage situation, and because of that I’ve added a few,” she made a vague gesture to the bag, “items to our payment agreement. My niece’s life is priceless to me; I only hope that this is satisfactory recompense.”

Stiles took the bag and shrugged it over his shoulder. “You didn’t have to do that, Alpha Garcia, but your generosity is appreciated. I’m just glad that Peter and I were able to help.”

The Alpha looked at Peter and he forced himself to stillness. A Beta this far from his Alpha, without his Alpha’s approval… well let’s just say he didn’t want to get into the matter if he didn’t have to. I appeared that today was going to be a good day, though, as Alpha Garcia just nodded to him as well.

“The two of you fight well together,” she said, “I can see how it works.” She looked between the two guests, filthy and tired, and bowed deeply. “Your sister would be happy to see you so settled, Beta Hale. May your moons be ever bright.”

Peter felt his breath catch and chanced a glance at Stiles, but the Spark’s expression didn’t change except for a tiny arch of an eyebrow, almost challenging him to respond to the Alpha’s blessing. His wolf, though… his wolf wanted to howl and preen that the Alpha thought Stiles was his mate and would bless such a union so publicly. It made the blood in his veins rush and his heart pound, and then, then, Stiles smiled, soft and fond, and he knew the little monster had let the Alpha believe they were mates from the beginning. Had wanted her to see them that way. Had wanted all of them to see them that way.

Had wanted him that way.

Peter was many things, but a fool was not on the list. He gave Stiles one piercing look before turning back and bowing to the Alpha, grasping this last best chance at happiness with both his clawed hands. “May your days be ever joyful. My sister spoke highly of you and your pack. Your blessing means more than I can say. Thank you.”

He let the truth of his words ring clear and watched, fascinated, as Stiles’s skin pinked in pleasure. Oh, how he looked forward to exploring how far down that blush went.

“Yes, Alpha Garcia,” the Spark said, not meeting Peter’s gaze. “Thank you. But, if you don’t mind, my…” he stumbled over his words and the blush deepened when he accidentally made eye-contact, “Peter and I need to get all of this stuff off before it begins eating through our skin the way it did the aqrabuamelu’s. Spells can be made to be specific, but potions can’t really differentiate between types of skin.”

He sounded sheepish and young and it must have appealed to the Alpha’s protective instincts because she immediately acquiesced and sent them back to their hotel to rest and lick their wounds with a smile and an open invitation to visit whenever they were in the area. It was, in Peter’s not so humble estimation, the best possible outcome.

***

Stiles wandered out of the bathroom wrapped in an acre of terrycloth and a haze of Peter’s shower gel. Again. The boy had made a break for the bathroom claiming dibs on the first shower as soon as they’d arrived, and Peter had been impatiently waiting his turn alternately trying not to think too hard about the stuff on his skin or the naked young man in the shower. One was decidedly easier to ignore than the other.

While sitting there it occurred to him that Stiles taking over his shower and appropriating his bath products was becoming a habit he didn’t mind. As a matter of fact, he thought he could be happy smelling that particular combination of scents for the rest of his life. That was a thought for later, though. For now, he had another priority, and he pushed his way into the shower stall, determined to scrub himself raw if necessary, to get the noxious paste of blood and potion off his skin. Once he was behind the shower curtain, though, he was practically overwhelmed by Stiles’s scent. Clearly, he had been enjoying more than just getting clean, and it made Peter’s wolf whine with want. His mate was teasing him, but he’d get even soon.

It took longer than he wanted to get the hardened goo off, but he managed without causing too much secondary damage. Finally, he wrapped himself in one of the hotel robes and sauntered back into their room.

Stiles was stretched out on the bed he’d slept in the night before, eyes slitted, almost closed, and Peter could smell exhaustion on him. “Tired sweetheart?” he asked, and the boy made a grumble of acknowledgment.

“Killing giant scorpion monsters in the desert takes it out of you. Who knew?” Stiles yawned, jaw cracking. “The desert always does this to me, though. I remember being bedridden for two days after mom dragged me and dad to White Sands National Park. It made no sense—nothing but gypsum sand for miles. Not a milkshake or a curly fry in sight. I was miserable. At that point I was like, screw this dry heat/wet heat argument. How about a nice place where it never gets hot enough to melt your balls or cold enough to hurt your face? That sounds good to me.”

Peter perched on the edge of the bed and reached out to lightly touch Stiles’s knee. The skin was still slightly tacky with damp but soft under his fingers, and he didn’t think he imagined the delicate shudder than ran through the young man’s body. “I’m not particular,” he said. “I find that good company makes up for a multitude of environmental sins.”

Stiles looked at him, gaze steady. “So, you don’t have a dream destination? Chalet in the Alps? Cottage in the south of France?” He paused and licked his lips. “Red-tile roofed villa in Argentina?”

Peter stopped his exploration of Stiles’s skin. “Argentina? What ever made you think of Argentina?”

Stiles shifted, the robe slipping and baring yet more long leg. “Well, you said good company was important. I thought maybe that included, I don’t know… extended family?”

Peter’s heart stuttered at the thought. Derek and Cora. They’d been gone long enough that he’d begun to accept that he wouldn’t see them again. “I’ll admit, the idea of family has its pull, but family of choice, pack and mate, is more important.” He cupped the back of Stiles’s knee and squeezed. “I wouldn’t run off chasing rainbows when what I really want is already closer to home.”

Stiles rolled over on his side. “And what do you want, Peter?” The fact that he used Peter’s name instead of a silly nickname brought home how serious the Spark was feeling. “If you could have anything, what would you ask for?”

Peter stared down into amber eyes and gathered his courage in his claws again; facing Alpha Garcia was nothing compared to baring his soul to Stiles. “If I could have anything, I would have everything, sweetheart.” He shrugged a carefully careless shoulder, trying not to show just how vulnerable he felt. “I’d take you as my mate. I’d be an Alpha again. I’d bring Derek and Cora back and have them become pack again. We’d find our own territory—it wouldn’t have to be Beacon Hills; Hale territory stretched much farther afield than that. We’d rebuild the Hale Pack.” He dropped his gaze to his curled fingers. “Maybe adopt a couple of pups to raise. Sell our services to smaller packs to refill the coffers and regain the respect that the Hale name used to command.” He reached out and grabbed Stiles’s hand and brought it to his mouth, pressing a fang-laced kiss to the knuckles there, emotions riding him too hard for him to hide them anymore. “But if all I could have was you, forever? I’d be the happiest wolf in the world. Never doubt that.”

Stiles sat up and pulled Peter into a hug. “I’m glad you weren’t upset that I let Alpha Garcia think we were together. I thought… well, I won’t go into what I thought. I’m just glad I wasn’t wrong. I mean, I could have been. You haven’t even tried to kiss me.”

Peter rumbled deep in his chest, arms snaking around Stiles’s waist. “An oversight I intend to rectify immediately, if not sooner.” He dragged his cheek along the Spark’s neck, scenting him heavily before pressing their lips together, reveling in his boy’s trembling breath and grasping fingers. “Kiss you. Touch you. Cover every inch of your skin in my scent so that any were that comes in contact with you can smell that you’re mine.”

Stiles’s groaned and leaned into him. “Want that,” he pressed hot lips along the edge of Peter’s jaw, and they both shivered, “want that so much. Want everything with you.”

Peter grinned into his skin. “Everything, hmmm? I like the sound of that.”

Stiles made a noise of frustration. “Yes, everything, but it’s going to have to wait at least a little bit longer.”

Peter made a moue of distaste, dropping another kiss on Stiles parted lips. Stopping was the last thing he wanted, but he refused to rush his mate in this. “I do not like the sound of that. But you’re probably starving. You’ve only eaten four times today.” He pulled Stiles tightly against his side, letting his hands trail under the edge of his robe one last time to tide his wolf over. He wasn’t a saint, after all. “Let’s put our clothes on—dear God I can’t believe I’m saying that. You are a terrible influence on me.—and I’ll take you out to dinner and to see a show. It is Las Vegas, after all. It would be a shame to leave without seeing a tiger or Celine Dion or something. Something that isn’t likely to attack us, anyway.”

Stiles rubbed his face into Peter’s neck, mouthing gently along the skin and nipping at it for his teasing, but there was breathless laughter in his voice when he spoke. “Yes, being attacked by Celine Dion would be terrifying. Regardless,” he said, sitting up and moving so there was a little space between them. “We at least need to go to Caesar’s Palace.”

Peter laughed, heart lighter than it had been in years. Caesar’s Palace? Why not? “Is Caesar’s Palace on your bucket list, dear heart? Or is it just the pinnacle of tourist trap kitsch and you feel the need to commune with it somehow?”

Stiles shook his head and gave him a mischievous smile. “No. It’s just that Caesar’s is where Derek and Cora are going to be staying. They should be getting into town in about, oh,” he peeked around Peter’s shoulder and glanced at the bedside clock, “two hours. Just long enough for us to make out a little before we have to go meet them. Or get some dinner. Whichever you want.”

Peter was stunned. Derek and Cora were coming to Las Vegas? And Stiles had already arranged it? What else did his Spark have planned? He looked down at the force of nature in his arms and wondered, not for the first time, how he’d managed to find such a perfect mate. He forced his words through a dry mouth. “And what if I want everything, Stiles?”

Golden eyes glowed and the mischief faded into determination. “Then you’ll have everything, Peter. I knew when I made this move what I wanted; luckily, my wish list and yours are almost identical. I know that you were waiting until I was ready before you made any sort of move, but you were never going to believe that I was unless I did something drastic, so… I did something drastic. The Alpha’s blessing was an unexpected bonus. Derek and Cora were the easy part. They know you’re not perfect, and it’s going to take a lot of work to build your relationship back to anywhere near where it needs to be, but they’re willing to give it a chance if you are.”

“And the rest?” Peter asked, almost afraid of the answer. “There’s no pack without an Alpha, and I lost my red eyes a long time ago, sweetheart.”

Long fingers combed through the scruff of his beard. “About that,” Stiles tilted his head to one side and smiled. “I got a call from an Alpha in Saskatchewan. Seems they have a rogue Alpha running around biting people without asking first, and you know what they say.”

“No, sweetheart,” Peter said, closing the space between them, thoughts flashing through his mind and hope fluttering wildly in his chest. “What do they say?”

Stiles pressed even closer. “Well, it’s like it was the garage.” He held his wrist up and shook the little black bracelet that covered his pulse point just a breath away from Peter’s fangs. “Consent is sexy.”

Peter stared at the limb, longing to bury his teeth in the tendons, and thought, not for the first time, that this boy would either be the life or death of him.

***

“Canada?” Scott sounded confused. It was sad that Peter could identify the flavor of confusion. This one was Someone is offering me something that’s too good to be true, and I want to believe them, but the last time I did I ended up with no motorbike, a pocket full of magic beans, and sleeping on the couch.

There was a reason Kira was Peter’s favorite packmate. Or… soon to be ex-packmate if all went well.

“Yes, Canada, Scott. There’s a pack in Saskatchewan that Talia had a treaty with, and they’ve reached out and asked if I could come up and help them with a training program for some of their younger wolves. They don’t have much interaction with other packs because they’re so isolated, and their Left Hand is getting old enough that he isn’t able to keep up with the young ones’, ah, enthusiasm.”

Scott grinned. “You mean you’re volunteering to move to the Great White North and let a bunch of teenagers beat up on you?”

Peter sneered a little. “It isn’t like I don’t have experience with it.” He gave the teenagers that surrounded them a significant look. “And they don’t have anyone else to turn to. I didn’t think you’d mind if I took a little… time away. In the name of pack inter-relations.”

Scott waved a hand. “No. No, of course not. Take all the time you need.” He looked at Liam and grinned. “In Canada. I’ll let Deaton know that you’ll pass our good wishes on to the Alpha there. Hey, maybe we can even get some sort of treaty out of it.”

Peter simply stared. “Perfect. I’ll have their emissary contact Alan after I arrive. In the meantime, since I’m not going to be in residence, but since I intend to keep the property in my portfolio the pack should continue to use the loft as a base. I know it is hard on Kira to try to host everyone at your apartment.” He gave the kitsune a half-smile and she nodded back, grateful of his consideration. He almost felt guilty for all the listening devices he’d hidden around the loft over the past week.

Almost.

With Scott McCall and Alan Deaton in charge, it paid to keep a close eye on things.

“Alpha McKittrick is expecting me by the beginning of next week. Will that be a problem?”

McCall looked like Christmas, New Year’s and his birthday had all come at once. “Not at all. Not at all. Next week sounds great, doesn’t it, gang?”

The gaggle of teenagers made approving noises, even if Mason and Kira shared a look that held more understanding than Peter was comfortable with. It didn’t matter. As long as they kept their thoughts to themselves for a couple of weeks, everything should go as planned.

He’d braced himself for questions when he returned from Nevada, but no one had even missed him. He didn’t know whether it was better or worse that McCall hadn’t realized that Stiles had been gone as well, but he’d take the oversight it if it meant that his mate had less confrontation to deal with, even if it meant having to face the unpleasant fact that his former best friend had completely left him behind.

Peter couldn’t wait until the truth came out and McCall realized what he’d thrown away. He’d be a laughingstock amongst the packs, no matter what his pet druid told him, and he’d known men like this True Alpha before. Looking the fool was the one thing they couldn’t abide. It would eat him alive, and Peter looked forward to watching the feast.

He cast a look around and realized that the next time he saw these faces it would be with an Alpha Mate Spark and red eyes. As far as he was concerned, it couldn’t come fast enough.

***

Alpha power scoured through him, blasting away at his control and consciousness, and he howled in pain and confusion as his soul was re-written.

“Hell of a power-up, huh, Zombiewolf?” Stiles was there by him, hands warm against his wrists, magic washing over him like warm ocean waves, voice soothing and comforting the terrified animal in his mind, and Peter nodded to show he was there and aware even if speech was impossible around the mouthful of fangs he was sporting.

“You’ve got this,” his mate sounded so confident, so calm, “you’re stronger than you were last time. Better. You’re going to be an amazing Alpha. My Alpha, Peter. My mate. Just hang on a little longer for me, okay?”

Peter could feel Derek and Cora running over the snow-covered ground. They’d stayed out of the fight on his order; he wouldn’t have been able to focus if he’d been worried about their safety, too. Stiles had also stayed back, but his skills worked from a distance, and his added magic made the fight much less painful than it would have otherwise been.

He remembered what the Las Vegas Alpha had said, that they fought well together. It was true. They did everything well together. As Alpha mates they would be amazing together.

A rumble started low in his belly at the thought, hungry and wanting, and he breathed in Stiles’s scent—ozone and petrichor, the camphor of ancient forests, the sweet notes of apple and woodsmoke, and over it all Peter’s own god-damned shower gel—and he managed to put hid fangs away, his desire to keep his mate safe stronger than the wolf’s yearning to rip and tear and wallow in the meat of battle.

“You with me, Peter?” Long fingers stroked up his arms, and Peter nodded. Stiles let out a satisfied hum. “Told you. Told you you’d be perfect like this. Powerful. Beautiful. Perfect Alpha. Just perfect.”

And it felt perfect—like he always it imagined it would after he watched Talia become Alpha. Like it should have felt when he took the spark from Laura.—red tingeing the edges of golden pack bonds between him and Derek and Cora. He could sense their emotions now, their hunger for a strong pack, their hope that he’ll become the Alpha they need as well as the family they want. And Stiles? Even without the bond in place yet, his wolf knows his mate. He could pick that heartbeat out of a thousand. Could scent him from a mile away. Already his in so many ways.

“Think you can stand up now?” Stiles asks and Peter realizes they were still crouched in the snow where he’d fallen after killing the rogue, legs knocked out from under him by the strength of the Alpha spark.

“Yes, sweetheart,” he said, pushing to his feet and pulling the younger man up with him. “If I needed to, I think I could almost fly.”

Stiles snorted and gave his chest a thump. “Riding that high, are we?” Derek and Cora were standing just beyond arms reach sharing a smile and for once Peter didn’t feel like he was being laughed at. No. His pack was laughing with him, joyous in the moment, and he shook his head and let them laugh.

“It feels,” Peter tried to find the perfect words and couldn’t, but he needed to explain somehow. “Good. Right. Last time it didn’t feel like this, but now it’s like a shoe that was too tight finally stretched and now fits.”

Derek nodded. “That’s what happened when I was Alpha. It was like the Alpha power didn’t fit. I thought at the time it was just because I hadn’t been trained for it, but I think it’s more than that. I think the person has to fit the Alpha-power instead of the other way around. Whether that’s from birth or growth or whatever: you can’t fake it and have it work right. This,” he waved a hand at Peter and looked at Cora for confirmation. “This feels right.”

Cora leaned into her big brother and Peter could see relief in every line of her body, as if she’d finally been allowed to stand down from a perpetual state of alertness. “It does. It hasn’t felt like this in a long time. Not since…” her voice faded, and Derek hugged her hard. “Not since mom.”

Stiles had been silent during this exchange, allowing the remaining Hales their moment of healing, but he wasn’t one to be quiet for long. “Awesome. Glad to hear it. Couldn’t be happier about it, and am looking forward to talking about it more, but as the token human I need to say something.”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “And what would that be, dear one? Have you some hidden wisdom concerning the nature of the Alpha spark?”

Stiles shook his head. “No, but I do have some wisdom concerning the care and keeping of pack humans. The instruction manual says that humans aren’t meant to be kept out in the snow this long, and that means that if you three wolfy space-heaters don’t get me inside soon, I’m going to be a Spark-cicle.”

Peter barked out a laugh and swung his mate-to-be up in a bridal carry, pulling him against his chest and letting him bury his face in the heat of his neck. “Well, there are too many things that I’d miss if they froze and fell off, so I suppose we should head back to the cars. I, at least,” he wrinkles his nose and then rubs it into Stiles’s hair, “need to change. I don’t think the hotel will let me in looking like a serial killer.”

Stiles smirked into his skin. “I’m sure hunting is a thing around here. You could always say that Bambi fought back---if your wolfy pride could stand it.”

His wolf chuffed at the insult. A deer got the better of an Alpha werewolf? Never. Peter sniffed dismissively. “I’d rather walk up to the reception desk naked.”

He didn’t tell the Spark that his murmured I wouldn’t mind wasn’t quiet enough to not be heard, but the peal of laughter from his niece and nephew made it clear. At least Stiles’s ears were warm after that.

***

Later that evening they lay together bundled up in blankets in front of an unlit fireplace. Stiles had lined every shelf in the cabin with battery powered candles and had brought out a pair of enchanted logs that he placed on the andirons. They radiated heat without flame, and Peter had to fight back tears in the face of his Spark’s sensitivity. Maybe it was the new Alpha power making him overly emotional. Maybe it was just Stiles.

It was probably just Stiles.

“Feeling okay, Z?” Stiles rolled in his arms and looked at him with concern. Apparently, he wasn’t as good at hiding his emotions as he thought. “Not having Alpha blowback or anything, are you?”

Peter tightened his hold and shook his head, trying to find his voice. “No. I was just thinking about how I never thought I’d get this.”

His boy nodded and settled back down. “You’d probably written the whole Alpha thing off. I’m glad it worked out, though. Thanks for going through with it. I know it’s hard.”

Peter shook his head again. “That’s not it. Honestly, the Alpha spark has been the easiest part of all of this. I’d always believed that I’d manage to get my Alphahood back someday. It’s…”

A cold nose pressed against the side of his neck and Peter could feel him nod more than see it. “Having Derek and Cora back. Family. Pack. I get it.”

That just made the wolf growl and grumble in the back of his mind, because clearly he didn’t get it. He didn’t get it at all. “No, Stiles, that isn’t what I meant either. Don’t you understand yet? All these other things?” He tried to calm his voice, but his wolf was riding him to make his mate understand. “The pack, my niece and nephew, the Alpha spark---all of these are wonderful, and I wouldn’t give them up for anything now that I have them, but they would never have happened without you. You are the everything. You are my everything. I never thought I would find a mate, find my soul’s match. Hell, for more than half my life I was convinced I didn’t have a soul, and then you came along. Brighter than any flame. Stronger than any force of Nature. You crashed into my life and nothing has been the same and I am so fucking grateful.”

He pulled Stiles up so he could look into the whiskey depths he dreamed of every night. “I wouldn’t be here without you.” Stiles opened his mouth to argue, because his boy always argued, and Peter shushed him. “No. I mean it. If I hadn’t scented you in the woods. Hadn’t had you so close to me in the garage. If you hadn’t killed me and then taken me back in when I was too stubborn to stay dead. If you hadn’t found something in me to value, something you could care about…” he pressed their foreheads together. “I wouldn’t be here.”

Peter resettled them, pressed his lips against Stiles’s temple, and listened to his heart race in his chest. “I am a selfish bastard. I’ve been called a narcissist more times than I can count and until the past few years I’d have agreed with that assessment and embraced it proudly. Now, though, I know it isn’t true because I know, just as surely as I know your scent and the sound of your heart, that there is no me without you.”

Stiles laid in his arms unnaturally still. “Oh.”

That one syllable conveyed a whole conversation full of self-doubt and fear and isolation and yearning, and Peter’s wolf finally settled when a sweet cherry-blossom note of hope threaded through the Spark’s scent. “You really mean it. It isn’t just that I’m useful.”

Peter frowned and a frustrated rumble rolled through him. “You’re everything. You could sit on the couch and read comic books and demand foot rubs and curly fries every day for the rest of my life and I would thank the Moon that I had you to love and cherish and care for. You’re my mate, Stiles.”

“I just thought that since you hadn’t…” Stiles’s voice faded into an insecure mumble and Peter recognized the damage he’d done by not explaining himself earlier.

“Sweetheart, if the only thing on the table had been our relationship, I would have asked you to mate me as soon as you were legal. First, though, there was the problem of McCall, because as much as I loathe the brat, he was important to you and I wasn’t going to ask you to choose between us. If I’m honest, I was afraid if I pushed, you’d choose him, and I wasn’t willing to give up the parts of you I had for a slim chance at more. After Las Vegas, everything was different. I knew you wanted me, and I wanted you more than anything—there were full moons I had to leave Beacon Hills so I wouldn’t find you and drag you off to my bedroom to mark you, to mate you, to make you mine in ways that no were could mistake. You had a plan, though, and if that worked out, we could have everything together, and I wanted to give you that, to give you everything. I couldn’t mate you before I fought the Alpha, though.” He squeezed tighter. “If… if it hadn’t worked… If I failed to defeat the rogue, you would have suffered terribly if you had a mate bond already in place. You’re not a wolf, but as a Spark, you’d have felt all of it—all my pain—and if I’d died? Well, let’s just say I wasn’t willing to run the risk of putting you through that.”

Stiles was shaking in his arms by that point, and Peter ran a comforting hand down his spine. “The worst didn’t happen, though, and now that the threat has passed, I want you in every way I can have you.” He grasped the boy’s chin in his hand and turned his face so he could see him in the flickering candlelight. His eyes were wide and wet, his lips pink and bitten, and Peter had never seen anything more beautiful. “Can I have you, sweetheart?” He was so close they were sharing breath. “Will you be my mate? Be my everything?”

He should have been expecting it, but the Spark still managed to catch him by surprise, lunging up and flipping them in their blankets until Peter’s back was against the couch and he had a lap of warm, clinging boy. He waited for the Alpha wolf to rebel, to push back and demand submission, but all it did was rumble pleasure at his strong mate.

“I thought you’d never ask.” Stiles dropped a kiss on Peter’s open lips, chaste and sweet, and then another, this one hot and hungry, while threading his fingers through the short hair at Peter’s nape. He tugged gently and the wolf tipped his head back so his mate could lick into his jugular notch. The Spark made a low satisfied noise before pulling away and smiling, trust and happiness glowing in his eyes and magic flaring and rippling around them.

Peter remembered something his Grandfather had told him, long ago under a forgotten full moon: “Faint heart never won fair maiden.” His life had proven that to be true. If he hadn’t finally bitten the bullet, finally put himself on the line, he’d have missed this. Missed everything.

He pulled Stiles back down into another kiss and then flipped them back over, pinning his boy under him. Stiles squawked in surprise and Peter grinned. His mate was going to hate finding out he was the fair maiden in their story, but Peter had definitely come out on top this time.

Maybe next time he’d let Stiles come out on top. He was flexible.

#teen wolf #steter #spark stiles #peter hale #stiles stilinski #developing relationship #bad alpha scott mccall #getting together #first time in this sandbox #canon I don't know her

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rextasywrites · 3 years

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Little Darling 2 - a Lady Dimitrescu x Mia Winters fanfiction

the search and questions continue for Mia. who else is involved in the kidnapping of Rosy?

Warnings: mentions of mental illnesses

FYI - the next chapter will be focused on Lady Dimitrescu’s back story and i am excited for you to read about it!

Part 1

“So Rosy’s blood is the cure of all of…”, Mia gestured around the room, and her eyes landed back on Lady Dimitrescu, “this?” The vampire nodded, taking a sip from her wine which had a faint smell of blood. Mia didn’t dare to question the smell.

“Exactly. With Rosy’s blood and enough D-series material, my daughters and I could be defeated.”, she explained, putting her glass back down. “Redfield and his team had been watching us for years. We helped them to revive Jill Valentine. After our duties were done, we became the enemy.”

“Hold up”, Mia dared to interrupt the Lady, earning a raised eyebrow from her, “You are telling me Jill Valentine is alive? How? She hadn’t been seen since the incident with Wesker.”

“She is alive and well. Lives with Carlos Oliveira under a new name in Estremadura, Portugal. They have a nice house by the beach and drink wine before four in the afternoon.”, Lady Dimitrescu chuckled as she eyed her own wine, “A life Leon Kennedy would kill for. Poor guy, he deserves a break and maybe rehab.”

At this point, nothing surprised Mia anymore, so she relaxed back in her seat, not touching the blood wine Lady Dimitrescu had poured her. “I’m curious. How did you save her?”

“Quite easy. My daughters and I are infected with a certain kind of mold”, at the word ‘mold’, Mia’s eyes went wide and the nausea crept up her throat. Keep it down, Winters, keep it down… “And this mold gave us the gift of being immortal and changing our bodies. Trust me, I have not always been two fifty.”, the Lady laughed. “We were contacted by Chris Redfield who had retrieved Jill Valentine’s body. How did he find us? We don’t know up to this day. We suppose this Kennedy boy had something to do with it. Anyways...We infected Valentine with the same mold that changed us. Due to her infection in Raccoon City, she didn’t become immortal, but has about the same life span as a normal human would. Her PTSD and depersonalisation became too much, so she was suspended from any further missions and has been ever since. Carlos has done a great job dealing with her and her mental illnesses.”

“How do you know that?

“I have my eyes and ears everywhere. We have been watching you since you first joined The Connections.”

And yet, they didn’t help her when Mia needed it the most. The fuzzy feeling of the mold growing over her body spread over her skin and Mia swallowed dry. It felt so real as if it had just happened.

“You were healed, but your husband Ethan still carried part of the mold inside of his body and now Rosy is the perfect mut between infected and healthy. With her blood, the D-series could be defeated, and in return, my family and me.”

Mia nodded along with Lady Dimitrescu’s words. Her head was spinning with all the information, the nausea not getting better. Mold. D-series. “Please excuse me.”, Mia breathed out as she hurried up from the table, out to the balcony. On there, she leaned against the rail, the snow slowly soaking the sleeves of her jacket. In a weak attempt to calm her nerves, Mia grabbed a handful of snow, pushing it down her own back and pressed some against her temple. Think clearly, she thought to herself, do it for Rosy.

Lady Dimitrescu stood by the doorframe to the balcony, watching the young mother in a state of panic and despair. Oh, how this brought back memories to her. How her children were ripped from her for the sole reason of her ‘being a witch’, when she was just a normal woman with some knowledge for herbs and medicine. The torture she had to face, how she was shown the bodies of her dead children. How the mixture they put into her body changed her forever.

“Mia.”, Lady Dimitrescu said as she placed a hand on Mia’s shoulder, the younger woman being ripped out of her train of thought, “I promise you, we will find Rosy together and bring you back home. I promise you.”

“And Ethan?”

“Ethan will be saved too. A lady always keeps her promises. And now come. It is getting late. Daniela and Bella have prepared a room for you.”

Lady Dimitrescu led Mia to a room not too far away from her study, where the Lady would spend the rest of the night. It wasn’t too big, and on the nightstand next to the bed was a plate with Mititei, some Papanași waiting for her as dessert.

“Thank you”, Mia gave Lady Dimitrescu a soft smile and the Lady left her alone for the night. In case she needed her, the study was just two rooms away. Mia changed out of her snow soaked clothes, into the nightgown the sisters had prepared for her.

After eating the meals they had cooked for her (surprisingly good for vampires!), Mia laid back on the satin covered bed, staring up to the ceiling. As she prayed to whatever God was up there, she thought of Ethan, of Rosy, and the horrors that would await them. But she’d face all the horrors for a sweet embrace.

#mia winters #resident evil #resident evil 8 #resident evil village #lady dimitrescu

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faeriescorpio · 4 years

Text

Broken Glasses and Bonding Sessions

Erik Derekson & Dr. Iplier have a moment where Erik gets hurt and Dr. Iplier doesn’t understand how. Based off a personal experience no one can relate to at all lol. Placed on ao3 as well: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28618878

“Dr. Iplier?”

The doctor turns around, smiling as he greets the other ego.

“Erik! What can I do for-” Dr. Iplier stops suddenly, catching sight of Erik’s face.

The younger ego shuffles his feet nervously as Dr. Iplier leaps forward, fingers tracing but not touching the large growing bruise on Erik’s face.

“Oh, dear! What happened!” Dr. Iplier gasps, examining the injury. The skin was not broken, but the bruise was fresh and painful looking.

“It was an accident,” Erik says, twitching away from the doctor’s touch. “I was wondering if you could fix my glasses. Dr. Iplier’s eyes grow wide as Erik holds out his glasses, completely snapped in half. Dr. Iplier reaches out and takes them gently and examines them, surprised.

“You snapped these perfectly in half,” He says, holding the symmetrical pieces in his hands. He doesn’t know what he’s feeling: awe, maybe? Shock? Erik isn’t the type to break his glasses on purpose, but surely such an even break, combined with a bruise, couldn’t have been an accident?

“Did someone break these on purpose?” He asks, voice low and gentle, trying to calm Erik down from his anxious state. Dr.Iplier hopes that no one has been bullying Erik, but if one of the egos were, then he would alert Dark without any hesitation. But Erik only flushes, face bright red, and avoids eye contact.

“It was an accident,” he mumbles, twisting his yellow cloth in his hands nervously. Dr. Iplier frowns, eyes drawn to the movement, and catches sight of small bruises on Erik’s hands.

“What’s this?” He asks, reaching out and gently taking Erik’s hands. Erik twitches, like a suppressed flinch, but lets the doctor take a look at his hands.

“It’s nothing,” Erik says, but the doctor only frowns. The bruises were minuscule compared to Erik’s face, and fainter too, so there is nothing for the older ego to do. He lets go of Erik’s hands reluctantly. He glances at Erik’s face, but there was little he could do there, and Erik looks a little panicked, eyes fixed firmly on the floor, so the doctor slowly returns his attention to the glasses.

Ignoring the fact that the glasses were entirely snapped, in the center of the nose bridge, the glasses would seem fine, intact save for small scrapes. But certainly, now unusable. And beyond repair.

“These will need a new frame,” Dr. Iplier says reluctantly. “Would you like to make sure your prescription is up to date before we make new ones?” Erik thinks about it, then nods, so Dr. Iplier takes out an eye chart and some of Erik’s old glasses. Over the years, the doctor’s equipment had grown to fit the needs of the various egos, as they seemed to think that they wouldn’t need any other doctor as long as they Dr. Iplier, but the fact was that Dr. Iplier was good for checkups, some emergency room action, and therapy. He did not start into existence specializing in Dark’s broken back, he did not know the optometry needed for The Host’s eyes or Erik’s glasses, and he did not memorize every mental illness available or how to cure Wilford of his obvious insanity. No, all of Dr. Iplier’s much-needed knowledge came from hard studying, late nights, and The Host’s help. The doctor sighs and calls out loud for the Host, confident that the blind ego would know he was being asked for, and what the powerful ego could do to help.

Surely enough, not a full minute passed before the equipment appears in the doctor’s office. Erik startles slightly, but Dr. Iplier only thanks The Host with an easy smile. He gestures for Erik to step forward. As Dr. Iplier leans forward towards Erik’s face, he catches sight of a thin red line across the bridge of Erik’s nose and frowns. It was just where Erik’s glasses sat, skin red and angry but unharmed. The ego in question only watches Dr. Iplier with a curious and nervous expression.

“Were you wearing your glasses when they broke?” The doctor asks, worried.

“It was an accident,” Erik repeats. Dr. Iplier frowns, creases on his forehead growing deeper. He couldn’t see how falling would’ve broken the younger ego’s glasses like that, unless, perhaps, he fell on something. The idea of Erik being bullied seemed more like a possibility, and Dr. Iplier finds himself growing angry. Erik catches sight of the doctor’s expression and looks slightly afraid, but offers up another piece of information.

“I fell.”

Dr. Iplier frowns, acknowledging his other idea besides bullies.

“On something?” He asks, and Erik flushes again, and Dr. Iplier recognizes it as embarrassment.

“Into a corner.”

Dr. Iplier makes a worried noise.

“Into a corner?” He repeats, and reaches out to Erik’s head, searching for any bumps under the younger ego’s hair. He finds nothing, to some relief, but Erik pulls himself out of the doctor’s grasp.

“I just stood up too fast,” Erik says, shifting in his chair uncomfortably, and Dr. Iplier pauses, confused.

“You just stood up too fast.” He repeats, and Erik nods. “Like vertigo?” Erik doesn’t have vertigo.

But the sweater-wearing ego nods anyway, and the older ego narrows his eyes.

“Describe the experience.” He commands, and Erik looks worried but complies.

“I stood up, took a couple of steps, and my vision went black,” Erik starts. “I was in the middle of the hallway, I think, I couldn’t see, but King asked if he could get by, so I tried to step to the side even though my balance felt weird, and the next thing I know, I’m on the floor and my glasses aren’t on my face.”

Dr. Iplier looks at Erik. There was no way that was vertigo.

“Erik,” he says slowly, “That sounds like you blacked out for a moment. You don’t remember falling?” Erik shakes his head.

“I was standing and then I was on the ground and my face hurt.”

Genuinely concerned now, the doctor reached out and checked Erik’s head again, making sure he didn’t miss any bumps last time, but the result was the same. Quickly, the doctor grabbed a pen and held it in front of Erik.

“Follow with your eyes,” he commands, and Erik does so. Nothing. The doctor holds back a growl of frustration and worry.

“Have you felt nauseous? Head hurts?’ He asks, but Erik shakes his head, acting like everything is fine. He doesn’t seem to regret shaking his head either, which the doctor notes.

“Only my face hurts, here,” He gestures to the bruise, and Dr. Iplier nods.

“You got a nasty bruise there,” he agrees. He frowns. He didn’t seem to have a concussion, which is both relieving and worrying. What had caused Erik to blackout?

“You said King was there?” Erik nods. “Can you go get him?”

Erik nods and stands with ease. He leaves the room steadily, and Dr. Iplier watches him go.

“Host,” he says slowly, “I think I need to give a blood test to Erik.”

The equipment appears by Dr. Iplier’s side quickly, a blood-stained note accompanying it.

“Do you need help diagnosing him?” It says in a sloppy scrawl, and Dr. Iplier bites his lip.

“I might,” he admits.

King and Erik enter the room a second later, and Dr. Iplier gestures them to sit.

“King,” he greets. “I don’t suppose you can tell me what you saw when-”

A flash of cold enters the room, and out of the corner of Dr. Iplier’s eyes his spots a black blur. He turns to face Dark as the grayscale ego enters with The Host in tow.

“I hear someone was injured?” Dark says gruffly, glitching sporadically in a way that suggests nervousness.

“I’m sure King’s story will catch us all up,” Dr. Iplier says, turning back to King, who looks paler as he realizes that something might be wrong.

“What happened when Erik fell?” The doctor asks, ignoring the two most powerful egos behind him.

“Sure,” King says, looking worried as well. “I entered the hallway, and he was just standing there at the other end, staring off into the distance, or so I thought. I asked if I could get by and he didn’t reply. He just stood there for another moment and then just fell over.”

“He just fell over,” Dr. Iplier repeats, and King nods and stands up to demonstrate.

“Yeah, he was like this-” King stands stiffly with his arms at his sides and legs together- “and then he just fell forward!” King leans forward, letting gravity pull him forward until he automatically sticks a foot out to steady himself. “Except he didn’t catch himself. Just fell, like a statue knocked over.”

Dr. Iplier looks at Erik carefully, noting the tight grip the youngest ego had on his yellow cloth.

“Thanks, King,” he says finally. “That’s all.” King stands reluctantly, glancing at Dark and Erik before Dr. Iplier catches his eyes. He tries to smile reassuringly at King, but the truth is, he is worried. He doesn’t know what’s wrong. He must do a good job at hiding it, though, because King seems to relax and darts out the door.

“What is it?” Dark asks, voice low, and the doctor could only shrug.

“I need to do a blood test,” he says, admitting his confusion. He turns to grab a needle.

“The Host will repair Erik’s glasses,” The Host declares, and turns his back determinedly as Dr. Iplier draws Erik’s blood. Honestly, the number of egos afraid of needles in this mansion was staggering, and not at all helpful for the doctor’s job.

As soon as Dr. Iplier sets up the machine, the Host turns around again, holding Erik’s glasses, now intact. The Host offers them to the youngest ego wordlessly, and once they are taken back, the Host turns to the machine.

“The machine hums, finishing its diagnosis, and begins to spell out the results,” The Host narrates, and Dr. Iplier realizes the Host is speeding up the results.

“Can you not tell what is wrong with Erik using your narrations?” Dark snaps irritably and The Host frowns in Dark’s direction.

‘The Host does not want to risk narrating wrong and giving Erik a second problem on top of what is wrong with him now,” The Host snaps back, and Dark steps back a little, the closest thing to an apology that the demonic ego would offer right now, and the Host turns back to the machine wordlessly. Enough time spent with the blind ego grants the doctor the knowledge that the Host has forgiven Dark, but Erik glances between the two worriedly, so Dr. Iplier pats his shoulder in silent reassurance.

The machine beeps to announce its completion of analyzing Erik’s blood, and the tension in the room ramps up. Dr. Iplier leans forward and reads the results, making a noise when he sees what’s wrong.

“Low iron,” he says out loud, and some of the tension dissipates. The doctor reaches into his cabinet and pulls out some iron supplements.

“Take two a day, and no more, or else you’re going to get badly sick, and no less, or you’re going to keep passing out.” The doctor instructs and frowns less. “And drink more water. I noticed your hands were rather dry.”

Erik takes the supplements with no small amount of relief and then exits the room quickly, leaving the other three egos behind.

“The Host is glad it was not something worse,” The Host says finally.

“Low iron is still pretty bad, you know how he looked,” Dr. Iplier counters and The Host shrugs slightly, shoulders tense, and the doctor accepts the apology for what it is. Dr. Iplier takes the health of all his family seriously, no matter how easily fixable, and The Host knows this.

“If I could grow gray hair, this would’ve given me quite a few,” Dark grumbles, voice less glitchy than before. He runs a hand through his hair, looking suddenly exhausted.

Our family can be so stressful,” The doctor commiserates. He pokes Dark for emphasis, unafraid of the eldest ego. “Like you. Get some sleep.”

The powerful ego only sighs, a moment of weakness reserved for the pair of older egos.

“Maybe I will,” he allows, and then glitches away, hopefully teleporting to his room.

“The Doctor will need a bigger office if he is going to keep all of this equipment,” The Host notes, and Dr. Iplier nods in agreement.

“Definitely,” He agrees, then hums and pats the chair next to him. “While you’re here, you should get your bandages changed.” “Absolutely not!” The Host yelps, making his way towards the door. “They aren’t that filthy yet!”

Dr. Iplier watches him scramble off, annoyance growing.

“It seems my job is never finished,” he complains to no one, and a fond smile threatens to tug his lips up, but he pushes it down.

“Oh well.” He grabs a clean roll of bandages and leaves the room, turning the light off as he goes.

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octothorpetopus · 4 years

Text

The Scientist (Derek Morgan x Spencer Reid)

When Spencer gets infected with anthrax, Derek’s not willing to let him go without a fight.

A/N: I highly recommend listening to “The Scientist” by Coldplay while reading this

Tags: @rxseinbloom @cha0ticbisexual

At first, Derek couldn’t see Spencer through the glass sliding door. His heart leapt into his throat as he scanned the lab. If he wasn’t here, where was he? If he was dead already, would they have gotten him out so quickly? Then he looked down and saw Spencer sitting with his back against the wall, his left side against the door, just out of Derek’s line of sight. He sat down on the other side of the door, and if not for that quarter-inch of glass, he would have fallen right into Spencer.

“Hey, kid.” Spencer’s head snapped up, as if he hadn’t seen Derek coming. He blinked as if waking up from a very long nap, and shook his head as if manually clearing his thoughts. For a moment, his eyes flitted over Derek’s head to the plastic tent in which a dozen or so government scientists were trying to find a way to get him out. He didn’t respond, just smiled a tired little half-smile. “How’re you doing?” Spencer shrugged.

“You know. Dying.” Derek laughed, but only because he couldn’t really picture it. He actually couldn’t picture Spencer dying, how stupid was that?

“You’re not dying, kid. You found the inhaler.”

“Yeah, and we still don’t know that that was the cure. He could just have asthma.” As if to prove his point, Spencer coughed. The harsh, raspy sound hit Derek’s ears and shoved his optimism even further down into the growing black pit in his stomach.

“You’re gonna be fine, Reid.”

“Yeah? When did you become an expert in biochemistry?”

“Since I started hanging out with you.” Spencer grinned weakly and leaned his head against the glass. Once again, Derek couldn’t help but realize that if the glass weren’t there, his head would have fallen onto Derek’s shoulder. “You know, it’s funny. I never thought about all the things I wish I’d done until now. I don’t really like looking back, I don’t usually see the point, but now-” he sighed. “Now, I wish I’d gone out for drinks with Emily and JJ when they’d asked. I wish I’d gone to all those hockey games you asked me to. I wish I’d said yes when Rossi invited me to dinner. I never thought I’d be one of those people who had a ton of regrets when they died, but now, I guess-”

“You guess nothing, because you’re not dying.” Derek didn’t say anything about all the things he’d regret if Spencer died. The things he wished he’d said, the things he wished he’d done. “Look, Spencer, I gotta tell you something.” Hesitating, he pressed one palm against the door. Goosebumps prickled his arms as his hand touched the frigid glass, but he didn’t shiver. Spencer held up one slightly hand and put it right where Derek’s was on the other side of the glass. His hand was thinner and bonier, and Derek had a feeling that if he could hold it, it would be freezing despite the heat.

“What’s that?” Spencer murmured, barely audible through the glass and under the din of everything happening around them.

“It’s just… with all this talk about what you regret… well, if you die, which you won’t, I’ll have some regrets of my own.”

“Morgan, whatever you’re trying to say, just say it. I’m too tired to profile you right now.”

“Well…” Derek tapped his forefinger against Spencer’s through the door. “If you die, I’ll never get to tell you how nice I think your hair always looks, even when it was long. Or how I get butterflies in my stomach when you fall asleep on my shoulder on plane rides home. How much I like to listen to you ramble about whatever it is you’re on at the moment. I’ll never get to tell you how much I love you, Spencer.” His voice cracked, but he kept on. “As a friend, and… well, I love you, kid. And hey, I don’t expect you to say anything back; especially not now. You don’t owe me anything. But I don’t want any regrets, and I want you to know you shouldn’t regret anything. Not with me. I’ll be here as long as you are, kid, and when they get you out of here, I’ll be with you. I’m with you to the end of the line, Spencer, whether that’s now or in fifty years. We’re ride or die, right?” Derek thought back to the night they’d taken the train to Atlantic City and gotten drunk tattoos together. Ride or die. That’s what they said. He rolled his sleeve up to show Spencer, to remind him. Spencer smiled weakly and put his hand over his collarbone, where Derek knew his only tattoo was hidden.

“I really wish I could get out of here now.” His voice was far too raspy to be his own, and it broke Derek’s heart.

“Yeah? Why’s that?”

“Because I’d give anything to kiss you right now.” He put his forehead, pale and sweat-covered as it was, against the glass, and Derek matched it, willing himself not to cry.

“You will, kid. I promise you, you’ll get out of there and I’ll be right with you.”

“I never knew. Why didn’t you say anything earlier? Did you have to wait until I was on my deathbed?”

“First of all, you’re not on your deathbed, so shut up about that. Second, I thought I was obvious, and third, how was I supposed to know you felt the same way? You’re not exactly forthcoming, Spencer.”

“Yeah. Maybe that one is on me.”

“No, it’s not. You have nothing to blame yourself for. Not now, not ever. You’ll get out of here, and you’ll see.”

“Derek.” Spencer spoke deliberately now as his eyes fixed earnestly on Derek. “I’m serious. If I don’t get out of here-”

“You will.”

“If I don’t. I left a message for my mom, but someone still needs to go see her. And… if I don’t see the others again, tell them… tell them there’s no other way I’d rather have gone. And that it’s not anyone’s fault but mine, so they shouldn’t blame themselves. Especially Hotch and JJ, because they will. And you. It’s none of your faults. Make sure they bury me in Nevada. This is my home, but I want my mom to be able to come see me. And, uh… I’ll miss you. All of you.” It was as if a dam broke inside him, because as soon as the last word was out of Spencer’s mouth, he broke down in sobs, his thin shoulders shaking. Derek instinctively moved to put an arm around him, to comfort him, but smashed his hand against the glass door. He was helpless to watch as Spencer buried his face in his hands, trying to suppress his tears but failing miserably. “I don’t want to die, Derek,” he cried. “I don’t want to die.”

“I know, kid, I know,” Derek murmured, willing the door between them to dissolve so he could wrap Spencer in his arms and hold him. It didn’t. “We’re gonna get through this, you and me. We have to. We have to,” he repeated, over and over and over until Spencer finally calmed down, and someone came over to tell him he had to get back so they could start the extraction process.

“I’ll see you in a minute, kid,” he said, pressing his fingertips to his lips and then to the glass one last time.

“Derek!” Spencer called out. “My mom. Promise me you’ll make sure she’s okay.”

“You’ll do it yourself, now-”

“Derek. Promise me.”

“...I promise.” Derek let out a shaky breath and stepped back. “And I love you,” he added mentally. He wished he’d said it out loud, but Dr. Kimura was already helping Spencer into a hazmat suit of his own. Come on, kid. You’ve survived so much. This won’t- this can’t be the thing that gets you. But as the doctors led him over to the heavily secured plastic tent, Spencer looked as if he could barely walk. Derek turned away. He couldn’t watch. He had come to the realization that whatever would happen was already going to happen, and he wasn’t going to get a say. That’s life. Derek was not an avid churchgoer, and to his knowledge, Spencer had never been, but with his back turned to the operation behind him, he closed his eyes, and began to pray.

The hospital was quiet, clean, and cold, just like Spencer. Derek sat by his bedside, feet kicked up on the edge of the hospital bed, hands folded together and resting on his chest over his heart.

He was going to be okay, that was what the doctors thought. He’d be out of commission for a few days, and any respiratory illness for a little while could have potentially fatal repercussions, but for the most part, he would recover.

That didn’t stop Derek’s heart from pounding while he waited for Spencer to wake up. He had already read the four very old Food Network magazines from the waiting room, cleared out the photo cache on his phone, called his mother, and played 17 games of sudoku by the time Spencer finally cleared his throat.

“Hi,” was all he said, the rasp in his voice no longer striking fear into Derek’s heart.

“Hi.” He pulled the chair closer so he could lean against the bed. “How are you?”

“Eh.” Spencer coughed. “I’m not dying, so…”

“I told you.” With considerable effort, Spencer lifted his hand and held it out to Derek, who got it immediately. He pressed his palm against Spencer’s, a thrill jolting through him at the skin-on-skin contact now that there was no door between them. “I told you.”

“In my defense, I’m the one with three PhDs, so if anyone knows anything…” he trailed off, his face making it clear he realized it didn’t matter. Derek bit his lip and squeezed Spencer’s hand.

“I think we should talk.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?”

“Do you… you don’t remember?”

“What? That you love me?” Derek flinched at how easily he said it. “Derek.” With his other hand, still pale and clammy but strong enough, Spencer reached up to cup Derek’s face. “What’s there to talk about? It’s love. Serotonin, dopamine, oxytocin. I could talk about the science behind it for hours, but that wouldn’t matter to you, because we don’t feel chemicals. We feel love.” We. We feel love. Derek was overwhelmed by the urge to kiss Spencer, and realized at once that he could. There was nothing now, no door, real or metaphorical. So he did, he kissed Spencer. Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined their first kiss would take place in a hospital, but it didn’t matter. Spencer was freezing to the touch, but through his thin hospital gown, Derek could feel his heartbeat. Spencer pushed his lips into Derek’s insistently, pulling him down with his hand on the back of his neck.

“Spence, I- oh!” Derek and Spencer flew apart at the sound of JJ’s voice. JJ, along with Penelope, Emily, Hotch, and Rossi stood in the doorway, every single one of them with their eyes wide and mouths open in shock. Spencer blushed a deep red and Derek covered his face in his hands. JJ cleared her throat. “Spence, I’m so glad you’re okay.”

“Yeah. I made you cookies.” Penelope held up her tupperware and the team filed into the room, smiling and laughing but without a word about the kiss. Derek and Spencer shared a wordless glance, suppressing smiles. Quietly, subtly, they linked hands. Chemical or feeling, love had beat death today, and in Derek Morgan’s book, that was a win.

#criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfiction #moreid #moreid fic #criminal minds angst #cm fic #cm #derek morgan #spencer reid #matthew gray gubler

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hi-hey-haechan · 4 years

Text

Self-Harm ~ Mark Lee

Disclaimer: If you are in anyway uncomfortable or triggered by mentions of depression or self-harm, I wouldn’t suggest reading this. Also, this is NOT in any way, intended to romanticize mental illness or self-harm. Love is not a magical cure for either of these. This is not an unfamiliar topic for me. I may not be a professional, but if anyone ever needs to talk to someone, feel free to message me or leave an ask. I’ll help. Always.

Pairing: Mark Lee x reader

Genre: Angst, it’s very sad

Word Count: 1.9K

Summary: Y/n, after trapped in a train of depressive, hopeless, worthless thoughts, attempts to escape her mind by hurting herself physically. However, later that day, her boyfriend Mark finds out.

Warnings: Mentions and description of self-harm and depression

The thoughts trickled in slowly, a small drizzle of negativity. A thought surfaced in your mind, and against your will, some part of you latched onto it. The painful words, images, and scenes in your mind became front and center in your brain. And that’s when the rainstorm came in. More negativity became to surround the central thought, every single word on the brink of your consciousness being a negative one. The rain poured down around you, driving you insane, everywhere you turned, being obscured by the rain, the pain within your mind, your soul. And just like that, you were drowning.

This pain ate away at you, toying with your sanity. You couldn’t even begin to comprehend what you were feeling. There was this pit in the middle of your chest, this dark, gaping hole of pain. It was as though every negative emotion you had ever experienced was screaming at you, horrible winds in your mental storm. You couldn’t understand if you were sad, angry, fearful, guilty, or resentful of yourself. Each of these emotions were ones that you felt with so much intensity, that they tangled together, becoming a giant ball of knots that you couldn’t take apart. You didn’t know what you were feeling. In your head, in your heart, you felt everything at once, the pain so blinding that it was numbing. You were so pained, to the point of numbness. The numbness ate a dark hole in your heart and created a lump in your throat.

This, of course, wasn’t an uncommon occurrence. You had dealt with this before. You dealt with it every day, in reality, some days more intense than others. There was comfort in your pain, at times. Worrying about something made you feel in control, as though your paranoia would prevent something from occurring. Happiness scared you. It was a fight with in your mind, these thoughts against your sanity. You’re fighting an internal battle, with no obvious point: the winner is already predetermined.

Mark’s positivity was a bright light in your life. His smile and laugh filled your heart, softening the tangle in the middle of your chest. Without realizing it, he was gentle with your feelings, his words to you therapeutic and warm. You wanted to be strong for him. Often times, you were: You held back your feelings when you needed to, and Mark’s arms were always there to embrace you when tears slipped down your face.

There were some days when you could hardly get out of bed. You dragged yourself through the endless cycle of days, a dark cloud hanging over your head. You wanted to get out. You needed out of your mind, and its dark thoughts that created a hurricane. You needed out of your body, which you loathed each time you looked in the mirror.

You cried. Of course, you did. What else could you do? When you felt enough intensity of one emotion, you managed to cry, your body wracking with sobs as searing-hot tears cut trails down your cheeks. You were a wreck, disgusted at yourself for crying over what you felt.

Then again, what did you feel? Worthlessness was prominent, for sure, side effects of dating an idol. He could have anyone in the world, but he chose you. This made you question why he would choose you. Mark could have chosen a girl with a different body type, and one in which she was fully secure. You felt he could have someone prettier, someone smarter and funnier and kinder and better. Despite his assurances of this being untrue, that he loved you with everything he had, you still felt this way. Your mind was trapped in this state.

At the same time, you were fearful. The weirdest phobias in the darkest parts of you were eating you alive, taking over your life slowly. At the same time, you lived in paranoia, always feeling unsafe and unprotected. You wanted to stop living every day in fear, but how could you, when it was a part of everything you did?

Did Mark make all of this go away? No, of course not. Not even close. Love wasn’t some magical cure for mental illness. However, his sweet ways of understanding you, and the way you smiled uncontrollably around him, most of the time, were what made the pain disappear for some time. Instead of pain being front and center in your mind, it would temporarily move to the back of it, giving you moments of peace. For some moments, your depression wasn’t always with you.

Depression. What an odd term. It was thrown around so much in society, commonized enough to be a simple emotion. It was used for attention, or even as an excuse for some actions. Depression was misunderstood, but those who didn’t understand it, still used the term without realizing its true meaning and power. This infuriated you. Depression was more than just temporary sadness. It was a dark cloud hanging over you 24/7, It was a mental illness that brought on feelings of constant hopelessness, helplessness, and worthlessness. This was something that impacted you day after day.

Mark knew about your depression, of course, and did everything in his power to help you. However, regarding your personal situation, he only knew as much as you told him, which really wasn’t much. Anything else he knew about it was based on his own observations. You constantly felt guilty, wondering if he wanted someone more mentally stable than you.

Thoughts built upon one another, one negative thought bringing on two new ones. Every depressing part of your life became front and center, forcing you to focus on pain, and pain only. You had to write up a report for work, but it remained half-written on your desk, the evils of your brain choosing to consume you instead.

You were desperate, in need of an escape. Everything was something you’d tried: stress eating, binge-watching Netflix or YouTube, reading, writing, sleeping...nothing worked. You were too far past that stage to even consider attempting one of those. It was impulsive, but you needed the escape. It felt like the only way.

Your safety pin was exactly where you had left it: Your bathroom cabinet, left in there just for emergencies: these kinds of emergencies. Settling yourself on the bathroom counter, you pulled off your socks -- thank goodness it was winter, so you had an excuse to wear socks, and you began to inflict pain upon yourself.

You scratched into your skin with the sharp, cold silver of the pin, seeing it flake away as the sting grew more prominent, moving the pin back and forth. The pain was a jolt in your entire being. You scratched the skin of your feet and ankles, for they were usually covered. What had once been skin were now small, angry lines, where blood had barely met the surface. They were painful. Hurting like hell, but were not enough to cause a large amount of blood, or mess, for that matter.

What did I just do? There was always that question after you’d attempted to reciprocate your mental pain with physical pain. Even if you cut, cut, and cut some more, it would never amount to the aching inside of your soul, brain, and heart.

Later that day, Mark had returned home. You two were changing for bed, and you slipped off your socks, having forgotten about the scratches on your feet and ankles from earlier (which hurt like hell whenever you put weight on that foot). You had grabbed your fuzzy socks and were changing into them, but you weren’t fast enough for Mark. Your seconds of forgetfulness lead to a consequence.

“Y/n?” Mark’s voice was small and quiet, sweet enough to almost move you to tears. He was looking right at your scratched-up foot.

You knew what he was looking at and referring to. Before he could say another word, you claimed, “It’s just from a cat in the park.” It was the first lie that came to mind.

“No, they aren’t.” His words were spoken plainly, without a doubt in his voice. He kneeled down and grabbed your foot, not daring to touch the cuts and hurt you further.

“Mark,” you said, your voice almost failing you, “stop.” It was a plea and an apology, broken with pain.

Your boyfriend stood up and sat on the bed next to you. “Why?” he inquired, and it sounded as though his voice had been ripped from his lungs, cracking in the process. Though you didn’t dare make eye contact with him, you knew he was crying.

“I’m sorry.” The words spilled from your lips as a whisper. A tear fell from your eye, landing on your hands, which had been balled up into fists on your lap. When Mark tried to grab your hand, you shrugged away his touch.

“You don’t need to apologize. You never need to apologize for being so hurt, that you do this to yourself.”

A sob escaped your throat, passing your lips against your will. You tipped your head down, trying to mask your cries, to no avail. Cries were ripped from your lungs, and you were blinded by the tears that continually welled up in your eyes, falling at a fast pace. A shattered “I’m sorry,” was all you could sob out, hardly able to breathe. This is me, you were kind of saying. This is broken Y/n.

Mark scrambled onto the bed and embraced your crumpled-over figure, which you couldn’t refuse. His body shook with silent cries against yours, and you hated yourself for this, for having broken him the way you did. “Y/n,” he sobbed out, and he sounded so broken that your heart shattered more. “My baby. Please,” His final word came out as a plead, and it spoke a thousand statements. It told you that he loved you. It told you that he was begging you to go to him, to confide in him, to let him help. It told you that he wanted this to stop, that he wanted you to be nothing but happy for the rest of your life.

Thousands of “I’m sorry”s came from your mouth, the utterance of your words barely audible, but Mark heard them perfectly.

“Why are you sorry? For feeling so low that you do this to yourself? That’s a cry for help. Why am I so stupid for only seeing this now?” He was blaming himself, and that broke you more, guilt becoming more prominent and lost in your tangle of feelings. You hated this. You hated that he saw you like this, weak and fragile, in your worst moments.

“I’m sorry that I’m not perfect for you--” you cried out, not in response to his words, but as a simple sentence that summed up everything you felt in that moment.

“You are! Y/n--” his voice cracked, “I’ll help. Let me fix you, please.”

“This thing,” you whispered, “the harm I inflict upon myself...it helps. It reanchors me. It’s an attempt to reciprocate my mental pain. But Mark, you can’t fix me. Nobody can.”

#nct angst #nct imagines #mark lee imagines #mark lee angst #mark lee #nct mark #nct #nct fanfiction #nct 127 #nct dream #nct u mark #nct u #nct dream imagines #nct dream angst #we_will_winwin

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creepy-spooghetti · 4 years

Text

A Hapless Endearment [Creepypasta x F. Reader]

Chapter 7 - I’m On My Way

With fatigue, she leans on the wall for support and stands, weakly stumbling to the sink, refusing to look at her reflection in the mirror as she bends over and turns the faucet on. She gets soap from the dispenser on her palm and rubs both of her hands together before holding them under the water to rinse them, and immediately after that, sticks her face underneath, hoping to rid herself of the foul taste still very present in her mouth.

She spits minuscule pieces of undigested food into the sink, letting the cool water run over and wash them down the drain without another thought. The sickening stench of bile sitting in the porcelain bowl almost has her gagging once more, so she reaches over, pushes on the little silver lever, and flushes it down into the sewer pipes, never to be seen again.

Only then does she look at herself in the reflecting glass hung over the sink, not surprised when she sees dark bags under her eyes and unnaturally pale skin, no doubt results from lack of sleep and getting hit by an extreme wave of nausea so suddenly. Her lip trembles from the exertion, her eyes distant, stressed wrinkles creasing her forehead. What is happening? Why is it happening? Why are such terrifying thoughts invading her subconscious each time she goes to sleep?

Perhaps she can blame this one on the news she received yesterday, but that doesn’t explain the strange symbol. Why would she draw such a thing? What does it even mean? And what about the buzzing noise? It’s accompanied each dream she’s had down here thus far, and it made itself apparent before and during she was heaving her lungs out yesterday. It also started when she saw that figure in the woods earlier. Is it connected to something?

She rubs at her eyes listlessly and pushes herself away from the sink at once, switching the light to the bathroom off and wandering back into the living room at a pace much slower than normal. Her eyes trail up from the floor to Marshmallow, who sits on the arm of the couch, eyes narrowed as he stares at her with dilated pupils. Maybe this should worry her; after all, animals can sense things that humans can’t. But she can’t bring herself to care very much. She just wants it all to stop. She doesn’t want to be sick 24\7, or have nightmares far worse than what’s considered healthy, or be on the look-out constantly for something that’s possibly hunting her down.

She flops onto the couch rather sluggishly and runs her hands through her messy hair, gaining sight of the large symbol that she seemingly sketched onto the paper for unknown reasons. Come to think of it, her hand is beginning to cramp due to how tightly she had been holding that pencil after she woke up, and who-knows-how-long before then. Does she have an illness? Is there medication to cure it? Should she go to a doctor and explain her symptoms? She’d prefer to wait and get medical attention, if it is necessary, once she returns home, so she won’t burden her grandparents with her problems and cause them to worry.

She knows for a fact that her parents wouldn’t give it much thought if she told them she needed to go to the doctor, nor would they be very concerned. If she told them the reason, having hallucinations, nightmares, irrational and paranoid thoughts, insomnia, they’d probably call her behavior ridiculous and refuse to allow her to make an appointment. Or would they? She is still their daughter— surely they couldn’t just brush aside something like that, right?

Then again, her father did it with the murder of his sister and the disappearance of his nephew, so she can’t ever be sure. But what about her mother? Isn’t the whole maternal instinct thing still there with her? If her child was hurt or scared, isn’t it natural to be worried?

She glances over at her phone, still sat on the coffee table charging, unable to rid herself of the sudden thought that creeps into her mind. Somebody to talk to would be nice. But would she actually listen?

Sure, her grandparents are just upstairs, but not only does she not feel like making that trek all the way to the second floor, but both her Nana and Pops are likely fast asleep. They've done more than enough for her already, and they have enough stress on their shoulders as it is. She wants to avoid troubling them with anything else and make them unnecessarily frantic about her health, both physical and mental.

Reaching out a hesitant, mildly trembling hand, she unplugs her phone and unlocks it, scrolling to contacts and swiping her thumb along the screen until she sees 'Mom'. Should she really? What if she disturbs her? Or wakes her up? Even if she did, that shouldn't be an issue once she hears about her daughter possibly having some mental illness that needs to be fixed.

Mental illness is a strong way to word it. She shakes her head, continuing to stare at the call icon that pops up once she clicks her mother's contact. It's just... stressed hallucinations. Or... or strange coincidences. Yeah, that's all.

Letting out a soft sigh, she presses the green button and brings the small device to her ear, hearing it ring several times as the anticipation in her heart grows. Is this a mistake? Should she back out? Maybe she's making a big deal over nothing.

"Hello?" She sucks in a sudden breath, heart rate increasing as the familiar voice meets her ear. How should she start this?

"Um... hi, Mom." Clear anxiety is present in her tone, though she hopes that it isn't as noticeable as she thinks.

"Y\n? What is it?" There's a hint of irritation hidden in that sentence, but the girl tries to ignore it and instead focuses on the reason she called her in the first place.

"Y-yeah, uh... I need to talk to you."

"About what? You know I'm busy. If it's more questions about your father, you know I—"

"No, Mom, it isn't about Dad." She's silent a moment as she hears her mother's soft breaths over the line, trying to collect her thoughts and put them into words. "It's... it's about me."

"...Well? Did you make another painting or something?"

She shakes her head, though she knows it can't be seen. "It's... weird things that have been happening to me. I-I don't know what's going on but it's really getting to me, and I feel sick and tired and stressed out. I don't know what to do."

"What exactly has been 'happening' to you, Y\n?" Her hand tightens slightly around her phone and she lets out an inaudible sigh.

"It started out with bad dreams... really bad dreams. Of people being dead, or freaky voices, or strange markings in a tree. A-and I've been seeing things in the middle of the night, or even in the day. I can't sleep because it's so scary and I'm afraid that when I go to sleep I'll have another nightmare..."

"Y\n," An exasperated sigh erupts from the other end. "aren't you a little too old to be scared of bad dreams or the boogeyman?" It's as if a knife is shoved into her chest from the harsh words of her mother, and she fights the tears stinging her eyes, attempting to keep her voice steady.

"Mom, it... i-it isn't like that."

"You used to complain to me all the time about bad dreams when you were a kid. You aren't a kid anymore, Y\n. You're almost seventeen."

"It's more serious than just dreams, Mom—"

"Grow up. You're a teenager, Y\n. Act like it." The girl swallows hard and lands her hard gaze on the floor, unable to stop the tears from slowly rolling down her cheeks.

"You're not even listening to me!" She keeps her voice in a whisper but raises it slightly to make sure she gets the older woman's attention. "This isn't some stupid childhood fear. It's something bad, and it's really affecting me..."

"I don't have time for this. I have about a weeks' worth of papers stacked up on my desk and I have to do them. You'll get over yourself eventually and stop being so childish. Goodbye, Y\n." Before she can say anything else, a beep is heard before the line goes dead, signifying that her mother hung up. What else was she expecting? Sympathy? Concern? Reassurance? She should've known better.

"Fine," she snaps, slamming her phone down on the couch beside her and releasing a huff, "who needs you anyway?" She plants her face into the palms of her hands to stifle the quiet whimpers emanating from between her lips. "I have myself and that's all I need. You're just a... a useless, irresponsible, incompetent piece of crap for a mom." Her fingers run through her h\c locks and she shakes her head, trying to compose herself. "Why are you even a mom..."

Of course her mother would blow her off. Her very own flesh and blood, brush her aside as if she means nothing to her. It's what she's been doing for years now, so why would she expect any different? I'm stupid. I'm stupid for assuming she would be worried. She doesn't care about me. She just doesn't care. She never does.

Soon, her shoulders are shaking as sobs wrack her body. She has to go through this alone, doesn't she? Her parents won't help her, her grandparents don't need that kind of pressure. None of her friends, if she can even call them that anymore, can help her. And they wouldn't. She's the one that left them behind, and they owe her nothing.

She shakily stands to her feet, wiping away the tears with the back of her hands in order to clear up her vision so she doesn't trip over anything, and begins her ascent up the stairs, not caring to bring her phone and instead only turns off the lamp as she passes it by. She walks warily up the staircase, doing her best to avoid looking anywhere but the ground for fear of seeing something lurking in the darkness until she reaches her bedroom, thankful that the light was left on previously.

She's unsure if Marshmallow will even follow her this time and bring her some kind of company, though, considering the aggressive way he was acting just minutes ago, she highly doubts it. Her gaze falls onto her bed, then onto the window that it's attached to, unable to quell the rush of anxiety that goes through her chest. The last time she was in here, she saw... something. What was it? A trick of the light? No, surely not. It was too... strange to be a trick of the light. Not to even mention the droning that formed in her mind while she looked at it. The same kind of droning that was present in her dreams, and at the river with Jack.

Is this normal? If it was, you'd think there would be more talk about it. In blogs, on the news, in books. But she's seen no such thing. Shaking her head in dismay, she steps farther inside, edging her way toward the window and anticipating what may be standing on the other side of the glass. She takes in a deep breath, hoping to calm her nerves a bit and brace herself before peering around the corner, over past her bed, and straight through to the dark woods across from the cottage.

She scans the treeline, her heart rate slowing down when she doesn't find anything out-of-the-ordinary and releases a puff of air she didn't know she was holding in, her muscles relaxing slightly. Nothing. There's nothing, so maybe, she can actually go to sleep without having to worry about anything creeping around. She doesn't want to sleep, but she doesn't want to get sick, again, either. Although that may happen anyway if she has another unexplainably terrifying dream. She can only hope that she'll get lucky and her mind will give her a break, at least for the rest of the night.

She doesn't know what time it is, and she can't gather up the energy to check. It doesn't even matter, does it? She glances over at her lamp, silently debating on whether she should turn it off to both save electricity and hopefully hide her position to anything that may be waiting outside, or if she should leave it on to give her peace of mind. She hasn't really liked sleeping with the light on, not since she was a small child, but recently it's sounded a lot more comforting than being surrounded by pitch blackness, save for the moonbeams shining in through the window and spilling out onto the floor.

What's better, hiding or feeling safer? Maybe there's a way she can compromise and do both. Her eyes avert around the room, eventually landing on the closet across from where she's facing. Could she do that...? Wouldn't that corner her? But it would be safer than sleeping in front of a window where some cryptic being can plainly see me. She remembers seeing a couple of spare blankets folded up on a shelf, and she could use her pillows as both a headrest and a weak attempt at a barrier. As unappealing as it sounds, staying in clear view of whatever is currently trying to get into her head sounds even less so. Closet it is.

She steps over and opens the door, switching on the light and glimpsing around for a good, somewhat comfortable spot to take shelter in. Under the clothes? No, too tight. In the little cabinet of old, stored things belonging to her aunt? Again, too tight. She decides on the opposite end of the closet, in-between a shelf and the wall, not too cramped but not too open either. And she'd be able to see the door clearly. That'll work.

She grabs the two pillows from off of her bed, plus an oversized teddy bear that had been originally sitting in the corner of the room, untouched, and goes back into the walk-in storage room, placing all three items in her self-proclaimed area of safety, before also taking a folded-up blanket from the small stack and tossing it onto the pillows. She releases a yawn, blinking slowly afterward and shutting the door behind her prior to double-checking the room for anything else she may need, only finding her water bottle, and switches off the lamp.

She sets it on the floor and shifts around everything until it meets her intentions, dimming the overhead light on the lowest setting, then walks back over and sits down, wrapping the blanket around her b\t frame, leaning against the wall, and tucking the large stuffed bear into her side. This is good. She feels secure here. There is nothing that can get in here without her knowing about it first... unless it's a hallucination. Then she can't escape. "I guess that's where you come in, Fuzzy," she mutters, hugging the bear half her size to earn some type of reassurance and consolation she had failed to get from her mother.

She stares ahead of her, at the closed door, waiting to hear something. Waiting to hear the creak of floorboards or the stamp of footsteps, or see the knob to the door slowly twist as it swings open. But one minute passes, then two, then five, then eight. Nothing of the sort happens. She just stays there, her breathing leveling out the more time passes, and she finds herself becoming relaxed. Maybe she should sleep in a closet more often...

She snuggles into the soft, though mildly dusty, coat of the bear, inhaling its old, washed-out scent of vanilla and allowing her eyes to droop. "Protect me if the 'boogeyman' comes in here, alright?" Her voice comes out as no more than a whisper, indirectly mocking her mother's previous choice of words to describe her state before fluttering her eyes closed and drifting off into a surprising, though thankfully peaceful, sleep.

___

His footsteps are almost inaudible as he walks through the darkened forest, his senses heightened due to the gloom around him. He's always more active at night, and it's been that way since... well, since the incident took place, all that long ago. Or was it even that long ago? He supposes it feels longer than what it actually is, probably because off of everything that's happened the past few years. But in reality, it's only been, what... eight, nine years ago? He was only seventeen at the time, and physically, he always will be. If he had been able to fulfill his career choice and live a normal life without meeting her, then he would be around twenty-six.

Maybe he'd have a girlfriend, heck, maybe he'd have a wife, although becoming a doctor takes years of dedication so he doubts that he would have the time to put that much commitment into a relationship. Either way, he would be happy. He wouldn't have to worry about being hunted by some otherworldly entity, or stocking up on the less-than-desirable diet his body has unfortunately given him. He wishes he could have something normal for a change... like pizza. He would just about kill for some pizza, preferably supreme, but pepperoni would work, too.

He shakes his head in disregard at his own thoughts, knowing more than anyone that pizza wouldn't ever happen, just like enchiladas wouldn't happen, or cheese sticks, or even something simple like cereal. It isn't possible, and though he accepted that long ago, he still gets certain cravings for things he used to enjoy. If he even tried eating them, now, he'd be sick for a week. One of the many disadvantages of being him. If only, right?

He checks the map on his phone that Ben had sent him about two hours prior, the direction he was supposed to go marked with bright red ink and making it pretty hard to miss. Let's see, he already passed the river, and he knows she took a certain trail to get to it. Just which trail did she take? He would follow footsteps but there's too much grass obscuring the actual dirt beneath, and even though he can see to a point, his vision has still been drastically altered, so he can't make out any pristine details.

He makes a turn and comes across an overgrown area of the trail he's been sticking with, though it looks like it's already been walked through several times. Up ahead a few feet is what looks to be a dirt road and past that sits a quaint property with a white picket fence, a garden, and a gate. This is the place he's been searching for, right? Guess there's only one way to find out.

Will great stealth, he slinks out from behind the trees, creeping across the natural driveway and up to the house, where he hopes his target is currently resting inside. If she's awake, it would make his job quite a bit harder, and he doesn't want to take any lives if it's unnecessary. Once he's directly in front, he scans possible entry points that wouldn't draw attention. A window? Sure, if the front door isn't locked. He quietly jiggles the knob after opening the screen, only to find that yes, the door is locked. Just his luck, but he'd be lying if he said he wasn't expecting it.

He peers in through the first window he sees on the bottom floor, quickly realizing that it leads to the living room. All of the lights are off, and it doesn't look like anybody is currently active. Releasing a silent breath from his nose, though instantly being hit with a familiar bout of hot air thanks to his mask, he slips his fingers beneath the rim, briefly tugging upward and being grateful when the window slides up without much struggle.

There's a table placed in front of it, but he can easily maneuver over that. Conquering obstacles is something that he's mastered over the years of breaking and entering other peoples' households, so one measly table shouldn't halt his process too much. With one hand, he holds the strap of his satchel that's been thrown over his shoulder in order to anchor it to his side to make sure it doesn't make any noise, and with the other, he grips the side of the wall, skillfully propping himself up and slipping through the now-open space lacking so much as a thud.

Once his feet hit the carpet beneath them, he does a quick one-eighty of the room, wanting to make sure he isn't disturbing anything by making his appearance, and closing the window when he deems the coast clear. She never mentioned anything about having a dog, or any other kind of pet when he talked to her, then again he didn't exactly ask her about it, either. Maybe he got lucky this time.

Thought too soon, Jack, he thinks as he finally notices the fluffy white feline perching on the back of the couch, ears folded back as it quietly growls at him. Of course it's a cat. It couldn't have been a bunny, a gerbil, or even a ferret, no. It had to be a freaking cat. When he was still human, he was never particularly fond of them, but now he hates them with a passion. They get under his feet when he's trying to work and trips him, they scratch and bite him, they latch on and it takes a lot of force to get them off. Granted, he can and does get rid of them pretty easily, but they're still obnoxious little creatures.

But he has to admit, as bad as cats are, dogs are even worse in these types of situations. At least cats stay quiet. Dogs, however, he can't get dogs to shut up. Especially little ones, like Chihuahuas and Pomeranians. God, those things love barking. How could anyone want to put up with something that isn't even cute barking constantly? He isn't Smile's biggest fan, but he puts his barking to use. And he never gets in his way. At least he can respect bigger dogs for that very reason because they actually protect rather than just yap all the time.

He huffs, brushing the insignificant thoughts aside and walking farther into the living room, ignoring the growls of protest from the cat attempting to defend its territory and making it very clear to Jack who this place belongs to. Not that he cares, he just wants to get in and back out without much trouble. As he passes the couch, something catches his attention. Not only is there a phone lying discarded on the cushion, but there also seems to be a pencil, and beside it is a sketchbook.

He leans down a bit to get a better look, seeing and instantly recognizing the large symbol drawn—or more like scribbled— on the piece of paper, completely overriding the original picture beneath it. Not much care seems to have been taken while it was being created, which is normal if it was made during the frantic state that he imagines it to have been made in. It's been apparent to him that Y\n was being greatly affected by him, but now she's to the point of drawing his symbol, his mark? That isn't good. His stomach does an uncomfortable flip, and he spins around, going up the staircase of the house after making sure there are no bedrooms down here with him.

The hallway on the second floor likely leads to various rooms, his only problem is looking discreetly into each one and identifying his target. He chooses to check the first door on the left, the door inexplicably wide open, only to find a nicer than average girly room. He assumes this to be where Y\n is sleeping, but to his slight surprise, he doesn't see her in the bed. Well... maybe she's staying elsewhere? But why would there be bags on the floor if there was nobody staying inside? Is this someone else's room?

He peeks back out into the hallway, seeing what he recognizes as a bathroom unoccupied right beside a closed door, likely one leading to another bedroom. And at the very end of the corridor is a door also closed. Which one of these rooms leads to her grandparents? Is he even in the right house? He has to be. Unless he's just conveniently landed himself in the home of another individual that's being mentally tormented by the ominous creature, which is highly doubtful. They would know about it.

He hears the sudden squeak of a door as it opens, and just barely catches a glimpse of a masculine figure stepping out into the hallway before he darts back into the previous bedroom, ducking for cover inside of what he assumes is a closet. He closes the door softly behind him, being careful not to make any sound whatsoever, and takes a step back, only just starting to notice the dim lighting around him. He tilts his head up, seeing a light bulb attached to the ceiling, and confirming that it's the source of the light. The question is, why would the closet light be on when virtually every other light in the house is turned off?

Looking back and into the small walk-in closet, he sees a figure curled up in the corner, bundled up in a blanket and hidden behind the clothes hanging in front of her. She's holding tightly onto what looks like a large teddy bear, her eyes are closed, and her breathing is mellow and steady. She's asleep. Good.

He's been getting to her. She must've thought the closet was safer than anywhere else. He eases closer to her, squatting down in front and making sure to not wake her up. Getting a better look at her face, he can tell that she most certainly is the girl he's been trying to find, and quietly opens his satchel, sticking his hand inside and pulling out a needle and a small, clear bottle of a powerful anesthetic. It isn't his go-to method, usually, he would use Midazolam or even Chloroform, but then again, he isn't currently trying to sedate one of his victims, he just wants to knock her out long enough to bring her back, all without harming her in the process.

He sticks the end of the needle into the lid of the glass container after properly sanitizing it, draws the correct amount needed for the injection, and puts the bottle back into the bag. He snaps his fingers in front of her face in order to test how deep of a sleep she's in. It would be hazardous if she woke up as the mediation was being given to her, it would also be mildly frustrating and make his job even more strenuous. Thankfully, her eyes don't even flutter, giving him the leeway he needs to lightly take her arm, twist it around, stretch it, and stick the end of the needle through her skin.

He notices when she flinches, but only slightly, and he begins to inject the sedative into her system. He had no trouble locating a blood vein, as he could hear the blood coursing through her arm from several feet away; yet another ability he possesses that makes people fear him. Most could compare him to a vampire, what, with his unnaturally sharp teeth and his constant craving for human blood. It isn't his fault, it never has been. But he's learned to accept it, no matter how disgusting it may be to others.

His intention is that it will keep her knocked out for around two hours, preferably four or five, in case he runs into any delays. This particular bottle of medicine is the only one he has that causes longer-lasting unconsciousness without any life-threatening symptoms, and he got it by mixing Propofol with another mild, over-the-counter drug with lengthy repercussions. Perhaps not the best thing to use, but oh well, it's all he has at his grasp. He isn't actually a doctor, no matter how much he may be treated like one.

He slides the needle out of her arm, places it into a Ziplock bag, and puts the bag into his satchel, looking down at her when he senses movement. She rubs the area that the drug was injected through, eyes only half-way open as she brings her arm up to her chest, likely wondering where the small twinge of pain came from so abruptly. He stays still, waiting to see if she'll notice his presence or just go back to sleep. It won't be too much of an inconvenience, either way, considering the medicine should be taking effect in the next couple of minutes.

She blinks slowly, shifting around in her position to get more comfortable, and landing her bleary gaze on the startling figure squatting directly in front of her. Letting out a strangled gasp, she tries to crawl backward, though the wall pressed up against her back prevents that and gives him the opportunity to reach out and force his hand against her mouth, muffling her yelps of protest. He can almost swear that her skin gets pale as she takes in his unusual features; a reaction he isn't phased by at all. He's a monster, right? It's only natural to fear him.

She grabs at his wrists, attempting to push him away and twisting her legs out of the blanket covering her body to try and get a good kick in. Only when she frees her legs does he lunge forward and straddle her, stopping any attempts she may have made to harm him, and looks directly into her wide, panicked eyes with his black, tar-dripping sockets.

"Calm down," he instructs in a quiet, yet authoritative voice, putting more of his weight on top of her as her striving to escape gradually increases. She thrashes, pulls at his arms, punches his chest, though he makes sure to keep his neck craned back to avoid getting hit in the face. Even with his mask on, offering a layer of protection, it wouldn't exactly feel good. He knows this from experience.

She tries screaming and yanking her head out of his strong grip, though fails, and can't stop her eyes from watering from the utter terror that rushes through her.

"You're okay, just calm down." He keeps his tone gentle, knowing the thoughts that must be racing through her mind at lightening speed and wanting to make this easier on himself. The faster the drug works, the quicker he can get out of here and go back to the base. She doesn't listen to him, either that, or she's physically incapable of listening with the erratic beating of her heart thumping in her ears and briefly deafening her.

They both sit there for another couple of minutes, her struggling getting weaker the groggier she gets until eventually, her eyes hesitantly close and her body goes limp. Before he does anything, he needs to make sure that one guy—probably her grandfather— went back to bed after using the restroom. Jack knows he was, indeed, in the bathroom because he heard the toilet flush from the other side of the wall, though he didn't hear any footsteps.

Stealthily, he stands to his feet, walks out of the closet, and looks out into the hall just in time to see the bedroom door close softly. Perfect. Now hopefully it will all continue going as smoothly as it has been so far. He returns to the closet, taking her hands and pulling her motionless body up, and wrapping his arms around her torso before she can fall back down. Making sure he has a firm hold on her waist, he bends down, allows her body to drop over his shoulder and across his back, before standing back up, tightening his grip around her and quickly adjusting to the extra body weight as he turns and steps out of the closet.

Hoody never told him to grab any of her things, so he assumes that he'll take care of that himself, even though he's not sure how. Is he going to sneak into her house to take them, or just get one of the girls to pick up a whole new wardrobe? Those questions are meaningless right now, he supposes, and he doesn't let it take up too much of his time before dismissing them altogether and making his way cautiously down the staircase, the girl slung over his shoulder making it a little more difficult than it normally would be.

His hand slides down to her thighs as he comes up in front of the door, and he uses his other one to soundlessly unlock it, not willing to go back through the window with the unconscious girl and take a chance on alerting the other members residing in the household of his presence, drop her, or both, so he opts to go harmlessly through the door. Twisting the knob, he eases the door open, then the screen, inwardly wincing when it lets out a rather loud and obnoxious squeak.

Not wanting to stick around and take any chances on being heard, he hurries out onto the porch, softly shutting the door and screen behind him, and quickens his pace once he's out of the yard and through the gate. He scans the treeline, making sure there's nothing insidious waiting for him inside, before taking his original path and pulling out his phone. He clicks on Hoody's contact and presses the phone to his ear, waiting for the ringing to stop.

"Did you do it?"

"Yeah, I got her. I'm coming back now."

#Creepypasta #Marble Hornets #reader #Creepypasta x reader #Eyeless Jack #Hoody #Brian Thomas #Jack Nichols #Slenderman #the Operator #Operator symbol #Eyeless Jack x reader #Creepypasta fanfic

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scripttorture · 4 years

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If someone is put in solitary to prevent them from killing themselves, are there other ways a person can try to commit suicide in there? If they refuse to eat, will they be force fed with a tube, or something? How long can a person last on force feeding? Or if they try to rip their wrists with their own teeth or nails, will they be forced to wear some restraint like a safetyjacket, or is it more likely they will be medicated to stay calm?

Solitary confinement makes suicide more likely.

It is well known (this has been studied for several hundred years) that solitary worsens all mental health conditions. A genuine attempt to prevent suicide is not compatible with solitary confinement.

I also think that the suggestions you’ve come up with suggest to me that you haven’t spent a lot of time around someone who’s actively suicidal.

Which is not a bad thing. I’m happy you’ve not been in that position. I’m also glad you took the time to ask about this rather then assuming you knew the answer.

Now I am not a mental health professional, but I have spent a lot of time around mentally ill people and I’ve been suicidal. In my experience self starvation is much more likely in people who are not suicidal.

People with eating disorders are generally not trying to kill themselves. And while some hunger strikers arguably are trying to kill themselves they are doing so in order to make a point, not because they’re mentally ill.

Starvation takes a long time. Especially if it’s a starvation diet rather then total starvation. People can survive for months, even years on starvation diets.

If someone genuinely wants to die that’s… seen as a big disadvantage.

Similarly I think biting the wrists would be an extremely unlikely method of committing suicide because it’s difficult and likely to fail compared to other methods available to the prisoner.

Human teeth can break the skin. But it’s (excuse the pun) bloody difficult. Our mouths and teeth are not arranged in a way that makes it easy to tear up meat. Our teeth are mostly blunt. Our mouth doesn’t open very wide. Our jaws are pretty weak.

So it would be physically hard to actually cause ‘enough’ damage for a completed suicide. And the amount of time it would take makes it likely that the attempt would be noticed and the prisoner taken to the doctors.

You’re thinking too dramatically. Suicidal people tend to approach seeking out death in a… morbidly practical way. For instance does this prison cell have walls? Because it’s hard to stop someone from banging their head against a wall and head injuries can easily be fatal.

Strangulation is a common method in prison cells for a reason: it kills quickly and it’s easy to do with the materials on hand.

I’m not going to go any further than that, because I’m very aware that this sort of information could be used to commit suicide.

So let’s get back to the story you’re telling.

Actually feeling suicidal isn’t always the big dramatic emotion it’s often portrayed as in stories. The impression I get is that it’s usually a rather flat feeling. It’s the nothingness of depression accompanied by a realisation that you don’t want to live any more. It can seem very logical to the person who is suicidal.

When it comes to trying to prevent suicide I think you should consult ScriptShrink’s archives on the subject.

I do know that most of the things you’ve suggest are actively dangerous and many of them are known to make suicidal feelings worse.

Medication might knock someone out in this situation but it wouldn’t make them calmer. The kinds of medication that effect mood and the underlying mental illness take months to work.

And sedating someone who is suicidal is probably not a smart plan. Because it can be dangerous, especially when someone might have injuries you don’t know about.

As for long term use of restraints on mentally ill people- Well that’s now almost universally agreed to be abusive and is universally acknowledged as dangerous.

Long term restraint, including straight jackets, can lead to sudden deaths. Even in young, healthy people.

I’m not a medic, I honestly don’t know why this happens. I just know that it does. People kept in restraints in the long term are more likely to die.

It also doesn’t necessarily stop people from committing suicide. Consider for instance that a straight jacket involves tying the hands across the chest using long pieces of fabric that goes behind the neck. They can potentially cut off the ability to breathe, both accidentally and on purpose.

All of this means that your image of what a suicide watch looks like is a couple of hundred years out of date. If you want to write an abusive scenario, or a historical one, then some of these elements might still fit in your story.

But if you’re trying to write a story where people are genuinely trying to prevent suicide I don’t suggest using any of these ideas.

Take Scriptshrink’s suggestions for suicide prevention over mine, she’s the expert.

What I’d suggest including in your story is:

Immediate help from mental health professionals

Segregation from the general prison population may be necessary but the inmate should not be left alone

Protection from abuse, including restraints and forced medication

Constant observation

Friendly, supportive human contact

You can read more about the effects of solitary confinement here.

Please, however you end up writing this, don’t suggest that abuse ‘cures’ or ‘improves’ suicidal ideation.

I’d strongly recommend reading a lot more about suicidal urges before you start writing this story. To be clear I don’t think you’re being insulting in any way; I just don’t think you understand this experience yet.

The good news is you can fix that. And I think once you’ve done some more reading and got a greater understanding of what it’s like to be suicidal it will be a lot easier for you to decide what you want from this story.

I hope that helps. :)

Available on Wordpress.

Disclaimer

#writing advice #tw suicide #tw police brutality #tw eating disorders #suicidal thoughts #suicide in institutions #solitary confinement #effects of solitary confinement #restraint torture #drugs #mental health #mental illness in fiction #starvation #eating disorders

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joaquinwhorres · 4 years

Text

The Fool (Ch. 2) {Fred Weasley x F!OC}

SUMMARY ››››› After getting tangled up with the Weasley Twins during the events of the Quidditch World Cup, Wren Collings’ life takes a turn for the chaotic. It threatens everything she has going for her, but she’s not convinced that’s entirely a bad thing.

PAIRING ››››› Fred Weasley x Female OC

WORD COUNT ››››› 7,000-ish

WARNINGS ››››› There is no depression or mental health issues in this story, but there are mentions of death, violence, abuse, some PTSD, etc. As most of the specific warnings revolve around major plot points or are found throughout most chapters, I’m just going to rate certain chapters on the movie scale. This is chapter PG-13.

A/N ››››› This chapter is dedicated to my lovely friend Emma. You KNOW why.

Series Masterlist | Read on ff.net

Wren wasn’t sure who was right, if it was Simon or the cards or her gut feeling about this year: all she knew for sure was that NEWT classes, and not the Triwizard Tournament, would be the death of her.

The last part was a bit of a disappointment, not so much that she wanted to die in a blaze of glory, but she would have at least liked the chance. Sadly, her June birthday saw to the fact that she would be a supporter and not a competitor.

Her small silver lining (more dull grey than a true silver) was that it was one less thing to worry about on top of her classes. McGonagall’s warning when passing over her time table that this year would have a “demanding workload” was apparently code for “grueling affair with death itself.”

Transfiguration, Charms, and Defense Against the Dark Arts seemed fixated on killing her through the traditional means of excessive school work, but the rest seemed to approach her death in a more “hands on” manner.

Herbology seemed intent on strangulation as Professor Sprout has decided to begin with snargaluffs and venomous tentacula. Dodging the slippery and spiky spines soon became second nature.

Hagrid has decided to introduce them to, if not venomous, exceedingly dangerous animals. Currently the class was in the process of telling jokes to Fwoopers as an alternative method to the silencing charm. Leave it to Hagrid to find out that they just click their beak when laughing. Of course, the untraditional method had already put Kenneth Towler and Amina Qureshi into the hospital wing to treat their minor insanity. But, all things considered it was a nice reprieve.

For its part, Potions had started off the year with poisons and their antidotes, which while extremely fascinating was somewhat nerve racking. Wren was fairly certain that at some point Snape would attempt to poison her as the lone Gryffindor in NEWT level potions. That minor fear, in addition to her particular love for the magic, drove her to devoting most of her studying hours to the class.

Which seemed to come in handy now as Snape began to pass out his unannounced quiz to the class. To Wren's surprise and mild relief, it was not a practical quiz but instead a written one. She assumed this was in an attempt to catch out students with trick questions which could otherwise be avoided as long as their potions worked.

In fact, as Wren reached question four, she was sure of it:

I am called in to the Hospital Wing once again because a careless Herbology student has failed to properly cork the juice of a Venomous Tentacula and has gotten some on their skin. What condition do I find him in, and how will I cure it?

She remembered this one as it had been a precaution Professor Sprout had failed to give them. She had simply instructed them not to let any get on their skin, and it was only in potions that Snape had revealed why. It had been more of a side comment in his lecture antidotes for the plant's other means of attack: bite, spike, and venom.

The student will be a bright shade of purple, and depending on how much juice he has come in contact with, complain of a faint burning sensation. The student should also feel quite embarrassed about their negligence. No antidote is truly needed except time which will hopefully make them more careful. Should you choose to cure them, however, the quickest effective cure would be a tincture of muddled fluxweed, shredded boomslang skin, and leech juice. The student will be extremely pale instead for a few days, but it might be preferable to the purple colour.

Wren reread her answer and felt that all loopholes were closed before she moved on to the next question.

A student suddenly collapses in the middle of class during last hour and slowly turns to stone. She has come into contact with no plants or creatures and eaten and drank of nothing since lunch. What were they poisoned with and what is the antidote?

Wren twirled her quill in her hands. Come into contact with nothing but suddenly turned into stone. They could have seen a basilisk? No, that only petrified people, it didn't turn them into stone. Could they have a Gorgon run into their class? Unlikely unless the student was in the Grecian Isles. And that was a sudden turning. This student slowly turned into stone.

It hit her, thinking of islands. Naghinbato Brew.

The student was likely dosed with Naghinbato Brew during their lunch. This poison is undetectable aside from its slight tang and it takes approximately four hours to begin affecting the person poisoned. If the student was lucky enough to fall over with her mouth open, a Wiggenweld potion with some Mandrake roots brewed in after the salamander's blood would reverse the effects. If not, an Adarna must be brought in to sing the student awake.

The remainder of the questions proved to be more and more tricky so that by the end Wren hoped for nothing but essays and practical exams for the rest of the year. The wording of each question proved difficult to navigate and at the end as she packed up her bag to leave for Defense Against the Dark Arts, she found herself casting a look at Snape who had begun to grade the quizzes and looked very much like he had just smelled something unpleasant.

Wren turned and headed out the door, eager to put the past hour behind her.

"Hey, Wren." Quick footsteps caught up to her as Cedric appeared to her left. As the only Hufflepuff in Potions, the pair had taken to sitting together as the sole representatives of their respective houses. Wren had to admit, she hadn't expected to see him on the first day of class. Nora had always claimed he was brilliant, but it had never quite shown through in any of the classes they had together. "How do you think it went?" Cedric asked, adjusting his bag on his shoulder.

Wren shook her head. "I don't know. Has he even taught us any antidotes involving the dirt of a child's grave? Or was that just a veiled threat?"

Cedric chuckled. "They use it against Amnetias."

"Of course," Wren moaned.

"What combination of poisons did you list as the components for that last one. I got Angel's Trumpet Draught but what caused the vertigo?

"I said Syrup of Hellebore."

Cedric winced. "Missed that one."

"Your antidote could still work," Wren shrugged, making her way up the stairs as Cedric walked behind her. The two of them pressed close to the walls as a flood of nervous looking Hufflepuff first-years descended down the stairs. Poor kids.

"Not likely," Cedric said. "I used a creature-based remedy for the vertigo."

"Ah well," Wren sighed. "At least we'll all get D's together." Cedric laughed at this and they continued the rest of the way up. The two exited the stairwell, heading towards the classroom that had been the talk of the school recently.

Quite frankly, Dumbledore should have hired an ex-Auror much sooner. Professor Lupin had been good--loads better than Lockhart or Quirrell, or Merlin-forbid, the ghoulish woman Wren had her first year--but Moody, he had lived this. His very first lesson for all of the students 4th through 6th year had been showing the Unforgiveable Curses. Today they were supposed to be practicing resisting the Imperius Curse. This was real education.

Wren entered the classroom, peeling off from Cedric who walked over towards where Nora was sitting with their other Hufflepuff friends. Instead Wren sat at the desk across the aisle from her dorm mates-- Angelina and Alicia.

It was pitiful how quickly Wren had given into the Imperius Curse.

Unsurprisingly, Fred Weasley had been the longest hold out, beating George by a full twenty seconds. Wren suspected it had something to do with their natural inclination to ignore any given directive, but Lee Jordan hadn't done as well as Angelina, and she was by far the most rule-abiding in their friend group.

Wren spent a good portion of the rest of her week practising fortifying herself against being Imperiused so as not to embarrass herself the next lesson.

Her timing wasn't much better.

She largely chalked this up to mental exhaustion after the previous afternoon's brutal double Potions lesson. Snape had clearly been seeking retribution for the class's quiz scores. While Wren had managed to earn an E on hers, it seemed the rest of the class had not been so careful reading the questions if Snape's rant about their inattention to the finer details and nuances of potion making was any indication.

So, after that lesson on Wednesday, being Imperiused on Thursday, and failing to to transfigure her raccoon on Friday, Wren felt completely spent and ill prepared for the mountain of homework awaiting her this weekend.

"I'm not going to survive NEWT classes," Wren griped, laying her head down on her arm and giving her eyes a rest from her Charms textbook, instead gazing at a sideways Simon who looked up at her from across the table.

"You're not going to die," he shook his head, returning his eyes to his parchment. "Nora didn't read it in your cards."

Wren rolled her eyes at the sarcastic joke and propped her head back up on her palm. She might have been more annoyed at the lack of sympathy if it weren't for the fact that she brought up how busy and stressed she was each time he saw her. It was a miracle he put up with her, really. She doubted anyone else would.

"You're right," she agreed. "But, a study break couldn't hurt. We've got ten minutes 'til dinner. Plenty of time to pack up and go to our corner..." She dropped her hand and leaned towards him. Simon looked up from his work again, this time giving her a small smile as he came forward and kissed her gently and far, far too briefly. He sat back into his chair, leaving Wren hovering over the center of the table.

"I wish we could," he sighed, picking up his quill. "Truly." His eyes raked down her face to the opening of her blouse. Wren's face heated up, and she returned to her chair. "But I have to get this done. My weekend's packed as is, and they rescheduled Wizard's Chess Club to tonight so I already have less time than usual."

Wren pouted "I know," she said, pushing a lock of hair behind her ear. "I just miss you is all. I haven't seen you all week."

It hadn't been that either of them was avoiding the other--this year it just seemed like their time tables filled up too quickly with barely enough room to squeeze in each other. Each of their classes seemed to meet at opposite times so they never had a free period together. Time after dinner was largely devoted to clubs, homework, studying, and prefect duties with the weekends looking largely the same with the addition of Simon's commitments to his Ravenclaw friends and tutoring of younger students. The only small bit of time they had together during the week was the hour right before dinner on Fridays.

"Wren," Simon said, his voice taking on a slight edge. "I'm doing my best, ok?"

Wren's cheeks grew hot with embarrassment. She hadn't meant to insinuate that he wasn't. She wanted to whine about how Hogwarts seemed to be plotting against them, not whine about him.

"It's my seventh year. I sit NEWTs in June. If you think professors are giving you too much, just wait 'til next year. It's all I can do to keep my head above the water. Between that and my duties," he paused, running a hand through his hair and breaking off the sentence. "When we meet to study, all I can do is study. I want to spend time with you, but I can't afford to just muck about this year."

Wren nodded, sinking back into her chair. She needed to stop complaining. She needed to make the most of their time together. She needed to remember the lessons she had learned from her parents' own marriage dynamic of Gryffindor and Ravenclaw. That the Ravenclaw would always focus on the goals and achievements, but couldn't function without the Gryffindor by their side. He did need her. He did want her. She had to just get over this.

This wasn't last year.

For the remainder of their time together, the pair worked in silence. Or, at least, Simon worked. Wren re-read the same paragraph out of her textbook three different times. The silence continued even as they packed up to go to dinner and most of the way down the corridor.

Suddenly Simon tugged Wren by the arm to the side of the hall, the movement leading her to gasp in surprise. He stood before her for a second, looking down at his shoes. "I'm sorry," he apologized, dropping his hand from her arm to hold her hand. "I'm just stressed."

Wren nodded quietly, her eyes also on his navy blue and white wing tips.

"I already hate how little we get to see each other, and when you brought it up--it felt like you were trying to make me feel guilty. And it worked."

"I wasn't trying," Wren said, smally. "I was being honest."

Simon tucked a finger under her chin, tilting it up so he could press another kiss to her lips. This one was far harder than the one in the library, and soon his hands moved to her waist and behind her neck, pulling her against him. Wren's brain had just caught up with the moment, allowing her to tug at the front of his robes when he broke away and leaned his forehead against hers. Tingles still raced to her nerve endings as her body buzzed from the kiss. Simon's kisses always seemed to linger--or perhaps, echo was the right word. The sweetness of the library had lasted longer than the kiss, and the dizziness of this kiss…

"We'll figure it out, ok?" Simon asked. "It's the beginning of the year. Once things settle, we'll find more time."

Wren hummed in agreement, kissing him quickly and chastely before following him off towards dinner.

Weekends hardly felt like the weekend anymore. No time with Simon. No sightings of Nora. Even her dorm mates were out of the Gryffindor tower in various parts of the castle. Everything seemed to pass in a blur. One moment she was eating breakfast on Saturday morning, and the next it was Sunday evening and she was hunched over a stack of Transfigurations books in a corner of the common room. Wren sighed as a fifth year boy burst out laughing as an Exploding Snap tower blew up in his friend's face. The noise was getting too much for both her concentration and her nerves, so, gathering up her books, she retreated up to her dorm, spreading out the materials on her bed.

An hour later, she jolted awake to the door flying open. Wren's pulse raced as she extracted her cheek from the page of her textbook and blinked around to see what had happened. Alicia stood just inside, tears streaming down her face. She also seemed surprised to see Wren, half sitting up amongst her materials with her hair sticking to her face.

"Oh, hullo, Wren," she greeted, hastily wiping at her eyes while studiously avoiding Wren's gaze.

Wren lifted herself up to a seating position, her face creasing in worry. She wished she had Nora's natural instinct to know what to do in situations like this. Did she ask questions? Pretend like she didn't notice the tears? Leave?

"Hi," Wren said gently.

Alicia walked over to her bed, bending over to pull off her shoes. She succeeded in unlacing one and threw it to the floor with much more aggression than the shoe could possibly have deserved.

"Are you all right?" Wren asked dumbly, cringing the second the question came out of her mouth. It was exceedingly obvious, even to her, that Alicia was very much not all right.

"I'll be ok," Alicia brushed aside, fighting with the other shoe.

"Ok," Wren nodded, despite the fact that Alicia still refused to look at Wren.

"Is Angelina around?" Alicia's voice came out tight and high.

Wren winced. "I think she's in the library with Lee."

Alicia nodded, evidently not trusting her voice for a response.

"If you'd like, I'll fetch her," Wren offered. Because that was the decent thing to do right? That was the right solution? Before she could get a response, Wren hedged her bets. "But also if you want, I'm a decent listener."

"It's stupid," Alicia dismissed, despite the fact that her voice seemed to crack around the word.

"Given the fact that I haven't seen you cry more than twice over the past six years, I doubt that."

"It's just...boys are morons," Alicia sat down on her bed, and Wren got up from hers, humming in agreement with Alicia's statement as she crossed the room, sinking down into the bed next to her dorm mate. She lifted her arm to put it around Alicia's shoulders before moving to pull her hair back over her shoulder as if that's what she had always intended to do. She couldn't remember: was it Angelina or Alicia who didn't like to be touched? She had to be the world's worst dorm mate. It was a miracle they even tolerated her.

"And which boy in specific is the moron that made you cry?"

Wren had a sinking feeling she already knew the answer.

"Thom Spiro."

While she had expected it, she still had no idea what to say hearing the name of the boy Alicia fancied fall from her lips. Guessing what he did hardly seemed appropriate, but given the wide range of idiocy common in the teenage boys of Hogwarts, asking seemed to be a dangerous option too. So instead, she sat next to Alicia and tentatively looped her arms around her in what she hoped was not the most awkward hug to ever be given. Whether or not it was, Alicia fell into Wren, her crying picking up.

"I caught him kissing Louisa Finch."

Wren's spine straightened, but she didn't say anything.

"Last night--we were fooling around, and he wanted--" Alicia sobbed, seemingly unable to continue as she buried herself into Wren's shoulder. "I said no. I shouldn't have--"

"No," Wren said, firmly. "Absolutely not. You're not finishing that thought."

Alicia sniffed. "But--maybe--"

"No," Wren repeated, shaking her head. "You're not for his use. Obviously he doesn't want a companion, he just wants something he can stick his knob into. You're more than that."

Alicia let out a watery laugh. "I can't believe you said knob."

"What else do you call it?" Wren asked, and Alicia laughed a bit harder. Spotting a bit of success, Wren smiled. "He's a wanker. A tosser. A prick. A dickhead. A pants thinker. A broomstick with no lift. A magicless wand. I'm just guessing on the last two."

Alicia wiped at her eyes, extracting herself from Wren's hug. "I wouldn't know."

"Because you're smart," Wren said, grabbing Alicia's hand and squeezing it. "If you're not ready, you're not ready. It's better to wait than dive in too soon."

A pause settled between them as Alicia silently nodded seeming to think over the statement. "You're right, but--" she swallowed, and Wren could see the tears begin to gather in her eyes again. "It still hurts."

Behind her Wren heard the door to the dorm open and she looked over her shoulder to see Angelina.

"What happened?" she asked, the tone of her voice hinting that she already suspected exactly the story she was going to hear. Alicia filled her in quickly, adding a few more details that had been lost to sobs when she told Wren. All the while, Angelina listened, her face growing stonier and stonier. "Well, you know what we have to do now," she said simply.

Alicia nodded. "Can you?"

Wren looked between the two girls, her brow creased in confusion. "Sorry, I feel like I'm missing something."

Angelina turned her attention to Wren with an echo of amusement on her face. "We have to tell the twins."

It was impressive how much food Fred and George were able to knick in just a half hour. Crisps, popcorn, apple tarts, pumpkin pasties, oranges, treacle fudge, nut brittle, and butterbeer were all placed in the center of the floor of the boys' dorm. Wren and Katie had managed to scrape together a decent stash of other candies like Fizzing Whizzbees, Sugar Quills, Liquorice Wands, and Acid Pops while Lee had convinced the other sixth year boys to leave the dorm and done an impressive job cleaning. Either that, or the boys were a lot neater than Wren would have ever expected.

Wren reached forward, grabbing a new bottle of butter beer and tapping her wand to the top so the bottle cap flipped off.

"Alright are we going to keep avoiding it or should we get to the business of bashing Spiro?" Fred asked, rubbing his hands together. "I've got some excellent remarks on the spelling of his name."

"Come on Freddie, that’s too easy," George admonished, plucking up a handful of crisps. "Let’s get straight to the point that he's a disgrace to Ravenclaw House."

Wren choked on her butterbeer, and Katie reached over to pat her back some as she attempted to pull herself together. Angelina looked more amused at Wren's reaction than the comment, and Alicia turned rather glum as she twirled a sugar quill between her fingers.

"I'm sure there's plenty of boys in Ravenclaw who have done the same," Alicia sighed, lifting the tip of the quill so she could nibble on it.

"No doubt. Boys are horrid," George agreed. "But even amongst the ranks of Roger Davies and Hector Martín-Delgado, Spiro has a particular brain. One might even liken it to a troll's."

Fred nodded. "He's got to be the dullest of the lot. Not quite sure how he got in, frankly."

"No bloke in their right mind would choose Louisa Finch over you," Lee added, nudging Alicia with his shoulder. The corner of her mouth ticked up.

"That's one thing for sure, but the larger issue is--why snog in a public corridor if you're attempting to run around with as many girls as possible?" George asked.

Even Alicia laughed this time, spitting bits of sugar quill out of her mouth before clamping a hand over it.

"A fair question, George," Fred acknowledged, toasting him with his butterbeer. "There are plenty of empty classrooms for that."

"Or any of the not-so-secret passages," Katie added.

"Behind a tapestry," Angelina shrugged.

"In the woods at night," George suggested.

"Anyone on the grounds, really." Wren put in quickly.

Alicia smiled. "He's not exactly the best at finding spots for...rendezvous. Last time I tried to meet him, I ended up with you and Norah Randolph." Alicia gestured at Wren. This thought seemed to deflate her a bit. "It must be nice to have a boyfriend. You don't have to worry about the running around together bit."

“I wouldn’t know,” George quipped, popping some Fizzing Whizzbees into his mouth.

Alicia reached over and smacked his arm. George flinched away with a chuckle, his body slowly lifting off the floor as he tossed the rest of the sweets in his hand into his mouth. “I was talking to Wren,” Alicia corrected.

“You have a boyfriend?” Fred’s eyebrows shot up as he looked over at her, locking eyes. Her stomach flipped and she paused mid lick of her Acid Pop.

“Where was he at the Cup?” George asked. She felt more than saw his eyes on her.

Wren swallowed, clearing her throat of all sugar. This was not a conversation she wanted to be having. Not ever really, but particularly not now. “He was on holiday.”

“You may very well be on holiday, but you come back for the Cup!” Fred said, indignantly. As if Simon’s absence from the Quidditch World Cup was a particular affront to Fred’s own honor as a fan of the sport.

Wren returned her focus to the acid pop at hand. With any luck it would burn a hole through her tongue in the next twenty seconds, and she’d have an excuse to end this conversation before it steered into unwanted territory. “Well, he’s not particularly a Quidditch fan.”

“What particularly is he then?” George asked.

“Simon Chambers,” Wren answered, sticking the lollipop back into her mouth and deciding that she would not take it out under any circumstances.

“Simon Chambers? Really? You and him?” Fred asked. The shock in his voice was a bit offensive.

Before Wren could break her own resolve–which might have had something to do with why she couldn’t manage to stay un-Imperiused-- Angelina stepped in. “They’ve been dating almost two years,” Angelina looked between the twins. “How did you not know?”

The twins shared a look, and shit, shit, shit.

“Well, I just never would have seen it. You, George?”

“No, never.” No one asked Lee, but he shook his head.

Despite the small wave of relief, her stomach still felt as if it was twisted in knots, and she wished very much that all of the attention was off of her. “Look this isn’t about my love life, this is about celebrating Alicia for narrowly avoiding dating a troll’s tit.”

“Collings! Your language!” George gasped, holding a hand to his chest.

“You should have heard her earlier tirade,” Alicia said, grabbing a licorice wand from Lee’s hand.

Wren once again took the acid pop out of her mouth to defend herself. “It was hardly a tirade. None of the words I said were that bad.”

Alicia crossed her arms. “Would you use them in front of your mother?”

Wren opened her mouth but before she could get a word in, Fred followed up the question.

“Would you use them in front of McGonagall.”

Wren’s mouth snapped shut and the boys laughed.

Katie shook her head. “Never would have expected that out of you, Wren.”

“I never would have expected it out of Simon Chambers’ girlfriend,” Fred remarked.

Wren cast him a sour look, and he laughed loudly, but the subject was dropped, and they returned to eating unhealthy amounts of junk, devising new insults for Thom Spiro, and escaping all of the things that truly sucked about being a 6th year.

Despite the fact that she had to spend two hours, first thing in the morning, avoiding plants attempting to kill her, Wren found Herbology to be a bit of a reprieve. Even today as Professor Sprout taught them to wrangle with a Venomous Tentacula in order to effectively and moderately safely collect the plant’s juice, Wren felt as if she was able to breathe in the Greenhouse.

Part of this she attributed to her mother. Having grown up with a Herbologist of some note, a good amount of Wren’s childhood was spent in the gardens and greenhouses her mother tended. Of course, her mother had never let her get near anything quite so interesting as the plants at Hogwarts, but she’d always quite enjoyed tending to the honking daffodils and umbrella flowers.

Her young training had certainly come in handy during the early years of Herbology, but even now as she collected vial after vial of the juice. Wren backed away from the plant, casting an eye around the greenhouse. Many students seemed to still be struggling getting near the plants, while others, like Fred Weasley, seemed to have no issue getting near the plant but couldn’t quite figure out how to draw out the juice. She continued looking around, her eyes landing on Thom Spiro who was currently standing far too close to Caroline Purvis. She giggled as she held the vial up to the plant, and he stepped even closer, almost forgetting his role as a distractor for the plant.

Wren’s jaw clenched. George was right. Boys were horrid, and Thom Spiro was a special sort. He deserved a serious bit of justice.

As she set the vials in their holder to be brought up to Professor Sprout when class ended, an awful idea struck Wren.

It made her smile.

With one eye on Professor Sprout who was busy helping Arlan Summers and Tom Dalgliesh with their plant, Wren corked a vial, wrapped it in cloth, and stuck it in her bag.

Herbology ended soon after, some pairs, like Wren, scoring as many as four while others had nothing but a few tears in their robes to show for their morning.

Quickly, Wren made her way up the hill towards the courtyard where she could study before lunch. She had just picked out a spot lawn when something in the corner of her eye caught her attention. She turned, staring harder as if that would make things make more sense.

Alicia and Nora were….hugging?

It was none of her business. She should really sit down and open up a textbook and focus on her studies and not be walking across the courtyard right now.

"Hi?" Wren cast a look between the two girls.

"Hullo Wren," Alicia said, the words coming out a bit muffled because of the sweet she was chewing. Wren turned her attention to Nora, squinting at her cousin as if that would explain why she was suddenly such close friends to Alicia. Alicia, Wren's dorm mate, whom Nora had had maybe three classes with in her entire Hogwarts career.

As both girls looked at Wren somewhat expectantly, it hit her that she probably should have come up with some excuse to be coming over to say hello. "Hi," Wren repeated again, this time more as a statement than a question. "I just wanted to catch Nora, for a second."

"Yes?" Nora asked, tilting her head slightly.

Shit.

"Mum said to ask if Aunt Kathleen had sent you my color changing ink. She thinks I must have left it at your house when we got back from shopping."

Nora shook her head. "No, mum hasn't sent anything yet...I thought I saw that in your trunk?"

Shit. Shit. Wren was saved from having to attempt another lie by Alicia.

"Wait--are you two cousins? I always thought you were neighbors or met on the train."

Nora laughed heartily. "I know it's hard for me to believe this moody one is my blood," she teased, poking Wren.

"To be fair, we are practically neighbors. It's just the two houses between us," Wren said, batting Nora's hand away as the other girl continued to poke Wren in the arm.

"Blimey," Alicia shook her head. "I'm just as bad as Fred and George aren't I?"

Wren wanted to assure her that she wasn't. The fact that Alicia even knew Wren was dating Simon was purely because Wren had asked her for advice to help get dressed for their first date. The only reason Wren had known that Alicia fancied Thom was more due to Lee announcing it to the common room one afternoon at the end of last year than because of any kind of closeness between the girls. But Wren didn't get the chance because Nora spun to face her.

"Oh?" she asked, her voice going up an octave. "How's that?"

"They didn't know she was dating Simon Chambers."

“Well can’t blame them for that one,” Nora's voice returned to normal as she once more turned to Alicia, ignoring Wren's glare. “You two are never around each other.”

“Our schedules don’t match," Wren defended flatly.

Even though she wasn't facing her, Wren could see the small twinkle in Nora's eyes. “Would you say it’s…'an unavoidable conflict'?”

Wren groaned, and Nora laughed again. "Told you Wren. Divination is serious magic. Anyway," Nora flipped her plait over her shoulder. "I'm supposed to meet Arlan and Cedric so we can do some Astronomy work before lunch. Keep me updated," she added to Alicia who nodded in agreement. With that, Nora was off leaving Wren and Alicia together.

"I can't believe I didn't know Nora Randolph was your cousin!" Alicia shook her head, moving out into the courtyard. Wren followed her.

"I didn't know you were friends."

"We're not really. Or at least, we weren't," Alicia said, selecting a shady spot under a tree and sitting down. Wren hesitated before putting her own bag down and sitting beside the other girl. "We have Ancient Runes together. With Thom."

Wren's eyes widened. "Oh."

"She saw me looking miserable yesterday and made her partner switch chairs with me. Next thing I know, she's passing me toffees and I'm telling her the whole story."

Wren shook her head with a small laugh. “That sounds like Nora.”

Alicia began unpacking some parchment and books from her own bag. "There's not anything in those toffees is there? Veritaserum or something of the sort?"

Wren shook her head again. “That’s just Nora. People'll tell her anything.”

“I think we might be best mates now.” Alicia commented and Wren laughed before taking out her own work, and settling into a studious silence next to Alicia.

She hadn't planned how to get the juice into Thom Spiro' drink.

That was the primary thought running through Wren's head as she sat at the Gryffindor table, picking at her food. She had waved Alicia on to lunch before her, claiming she was just going to finish the chapter before she went in and the other girl didn't have to wait. She'd waited fifteen minutes to enter the Great Hall, sitting far along the table so as not to be seen by professors or any of the prefects who tended to group together at the middle of the table whether consciously or not.

It was about then that the thought hit her for the first time, and she had eaten most of her food and was in the final quarter or so of lunch without the faintest clue as to how to get this vial in his drink.

She couldn't very well just walk up to the Ravenclaw table and slip some in his goblet. The most interaction she'd ever had with him was holding a door open to Charms. They'd never even so much as spoken. Wren half considered dropping a knut on the floor and picking it up and handing it to him. But, passing off a knut and simultaneously pouring something into his goblet seemed just short of impossible.

Wren took a bite out of her roll, watching as more Ravenclaws came in and filled the table. She caught sight of a familiar tall and lean boy with copper hair, and her eyes lit up. Simon. She would walk over under the perfectly reasonable guise of saying hello to her boyfriend, and swap her own goblet with Thom’.

This plan quickly crashed as Simon passed Thom, picking an empty spot, naturally towards the center of the table.

Of course, Wren had considered switching her plan to a simple Pepper Breath Hex, which certainly would have put an end to his romantic endeavors at least for the next couple of days or so. But compared to her initial plan, this idea seemed so inadequate. And how could she even be sure that Alicia got to enjoy the justice? There had to be some way, some excuse, for her to switch goblets--

Of course.

It was so simple, really.

It was unlikely the teachers would expect it. If anything, it'd be written off as an unhappy accident from Herbology. If only he had properly corked his vial or used gloves to pass it along like Professor Sprout had said. Quickly glancing around to see if anyone was looking at her, which of course they weren't, Wren pulled the Venomous Tentacula juice from her bag and poured it in her own cup.

Subtly, she took her wand out of her pocket and with another quick glance up at the professor's table, tapped her own goblet, muttering the spell.

She peered inside and noticed her cup was slightly emptier than it had been.

She'd switched them. A rush of victory swelled in Wren's chest and she almost wished that someone near her would give her a high five.

It took five minutes to determine that her plan worked. A small commotion rose at the Ravenclaw table which seemed like normal lunch nonsense before the group of boys around Thom parted. Wren watched as Thom’s skin slowly shifted from its beautiful shade of lilac to a darker lavender. Giggles began to echo through the Great Hall as Thom’s distress grew more and more apparent. Wren cast a quick look up at the professors' table. Professor Snape looked particularly unamused, but Dumbledore had a small quirk of his lips.

Wren took this as permission for herself to smile as Thom’s friends rushed a now violet Thom Spiro out of the hall and towards, undoubtedly, the Hospital Wing. Sensing this was as good a time as any to dismiss from lunch, the food vanished from the table, and the students began to file out. Wren picked up her bag, ready to go to Transfiguration and feeling particularly pleased with herself as all around her students whispered about that purple Ravenclaw!

"Fine work, Collings." Wren nearly jumped out of her skin, fumbling her books. She succeeded in catching them back onto her arms, but one slid out, bouncing against the ground in front of her. Before she could bend over to retrieve it, one of the twins scooped it up and placed it on top of his own, significantly shorter stack of books. If two books could be called a stack.

"What?" Wren asked, her head turning to each of the twins.

"I was wondering what you were up to in Herbology," Fred, the one who was not holding her book, remarked.

"Sorry, you've lost me." Wren shrugged and gave a jerky shake of her head.

Fred gave her a wolfish grin. "Have I?" He waved his wand, and the empty vial shot out of her bag and into his hand. Because of course he could do nonverbal spells already. He wiggled it in front of her, and Wren snatched at it, surprising herself by actually wrenching it from his hands.

Wren stuffed it back into her bag, glaring at him--although the fact that he was absolutely correct took all of the heat out of her look. "That's for potions."

"And apparently poisoning Ravenclaw dickheads," Fred remarked.

"I didn't poison him."

She did. Technically.

"I don't even understand why you think it was me." She succeeded in making her voice slightly more casual this time which did nothing but make the boys' smiles grow.

"It's not a suspicion," Fred dismissed. " I know it was you. Saw you in Herbology."

"There's a plant that does that?" George asked with widened eyes.

"Apparently the Venomous Tentacula," Fred said. "Sprout said it was a poisonous juice, but I never reckoned I'd actually see someone poisoned with it."

"Stop saying I poisoned him!" Wren hissed.

George's brow wrinkled. "Is there another word for it?"

"Empoisoned?" Fred suggested.

"Envenomed?"

"Would this count as drugging?"

Wren brushed past the twins, entering the Transfigurations classroom. They followed her in laughing.

Alicia looked up from where she and Angelina were gathered together giggling. "Wren!" she called, waving her over quickly. Wren approached, dropping her books off at her desk along the way and trying very hard to keep the smile off of her face, seeing Alicia positively beaming.

"Tell me you didn't miss it."

"Thom Spiro turning bright purple? How could I?"

"Merlin, it was glorious," Alicia exclaimed looking happily up at the ceiling as if attempting to thank Merlin himself up in heaven. When she looked back down, her eyes fell on the Weasley twins who had followed Wren over. "You two, you did this, didn't you?"

"Us? No," George shook his head.

"We'd never dope a student," Fred added, pausing for a second. "That's the word we're going with, right?"

George shook his head. "Doesn't seem quite right. I still think poison's the best fit."

Alicia's face creased in confusion, and perhaps if Wren hadn't seen fit to cast a dark look at the two, the other girls might have assumed they were lying.

"Wren Collings, what did you do?" Angelina asked, and Wren's face went slack with surprise. It was just her luck that Angelina, the one observant enough to have taught Wren and Alicia how to tell the twins apart, would have caught the look.

"Me?" Wren asked, perhaps too defensively because now Alicia's eyes were on her.

"Wren," Alicia looked at her wide-eyed. "Did you....?"

Wren made a sound of disbelief. "You think I poisoned a Ravenclaw student? I'm dating a prefect! A Ravenclaw one."

"You did!" Alicia gasped, grabbing Wren into a tight hug. "You're bloody brilliant. Honestly, Wren. I could kiss you."

"Doubt she'd let you," Fred quipped.

Alicia released Wren who stepped back, taking her book from George and hitting Fred with it. "So violent, Collings," he flinched away laughing. "They're going to lock you up in Azkaban. You maniac."

"So if he wasn't poisoned," Angelina said, "What exactly happened to him?"

All eyes fell on Wren. "He didn't wash his hands properly after handling the Venomous Tentacula juice in Herbology today. Or maybe the cork wasn't on right and some got on his skin," she shrugged. "Professor Snape said it happens every year."

Fred opened his mouth to remark but was cut off by Professor McGonagall walking in, signaling to the students to stop talking and find their seats. Her gaze fell on Fred.

“Mr. Weasley, as you are not taking this class, please find your way to the door.”

Fred gave McGonagall a salute, and turned to leave, making sure to gesture to Wren that he had his eyes on her before heading out of the room. Wren's cheeks tinged pink as she made her way to her desk.

The light poisoning might have been a mistake.

#fred weasley #fred weasley fic #fred weasley fanfiction #fred weasley x oc #fred weasley x f!oc #weasley twins #weasley twins fic #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter fic #harry potter book 4 #harry potter and the goblet of fire #ocappreciation #the fool #oc: wren collings #oc: nora randolph #series: the fool

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danidoesathing · 5 years

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Slenderverse D&D AU

im doing this again cause I now know more about d&d now so lets go lads. also there’s going to be some homebrew stuff cause this is my au and I make the rules here

ok so background time

The Operator is this unknown evil god that spreads a mysterious sickness that causes increased anger, paranoia, losing control to said evil god, etc. It makes the being more powerful the more it spreads the disease. Habit is a god of chaos that can possess pretty much anyone and does bad things. The collective is a group of former humans turned into monstrous gods. Habit, being the chaotic bastard he is, freed Firebrand and Firebrand, now pissed and looking for revenge, starts a full blown war with his former “boss” and everything with the gods at the moment is chaos.

character time yeehaw

-Jay: A half elf ranger( eventually doubles with warlock due to story related stuff) that came from a noble household, however, upon reaching adulthood basically up and left his old life behind. He made friends with a young aspiring wizard, Alex, until he became infected and well you can guess what happens from there. He’s more likely to run from a fight or keep his distance and his always writing in his journal.

-Tim: A human lycanthrope (werewolf) fighter that was raised an orphan in “The Home for Loss Souls”. His lycanthropy comes as curse from the Operator and has an extremely hard time controlling it. He’s pretty protective over Jay but also fears hurting him unintentionally.

-Noah: a high elf Sorcerer with an eldritch bloodline. He grew up along side his cousin Milo. He’s rather talented with magic, but not exactly good when it comes to hand to hand combat. He’s got an odd family mark that doesn’t make too much sense to him, but it’s probably not important.

-Milo: An elf Oracle (Homebrew class, basically a prophet with cleric/wizard spells). He’s a quiet prophet with the burden of visions of the future, the past, and the current state of the universe, and it takes a toll on his mental and physical health. He’s close with Noah and Kevin. He also shares the same mark with noah

-Kevin: a changeling bard and close friend of Milo. He’s rather joyful, always bringing the spirts up of everyone around him through songs and jokes. Of course, he isn’t exactly all smiles and serenades, as he’s been targeted by a certain shadow god as well.

-Vinnie: A yuan-ti wizard. He’s one of the five children adopted and raised by Dr. Corenthal. He acts as a calm, almost leader like role in most situations. He, along with his siblings, are currently looking for their missing father, while dealing with the mysterious sickness.

-Jeff: A half-elf bard, one of the five Corenthal siblings. He’s a rather laid back, casual guy. He’s only related to Alex Ko by blood, but the rest of his siblings are treated as if they were.

-Steph: An Aasimar druid of the circle of the moon. She’s a rational, quiet woman with a distrust of strangers, especially those of authority. One of the five Corenthal Siblings.

-Alex Ko: A half-elf bard like his older brother. The youngest of the five corenthal siblings. A kind, albite naive person with an admiration for Jeff and the rest of his siblings. He has a loyal blink dog named Sparky.

-Evan: A Barbarian rabbit Shifter. One of the five corenthal siblings. While he’s rather headstrong and short tempered, he’s very protective to those he trusts and is generally very kind, even with his own problems with a certain god of chaos.

-Michael: A tiefling cleric of the death domain, shaun’s older half brother. He often had visions of the Operator since he was a child, his parents sending his off to the “Home of Lost Souls” after a violent episode. He hoped the visions and haunting would disappear in adulthood, but he was....mistaken.

-Stan: A human paladin with a strong resistance to the illness. He’s on quest to help people with problems with the Operator and similar gods and beings and is looking for a cure. He has strong associations with the Operator from his past that he doesn’t like to talk about.

-SHawkins: A human wizard of an unknown origin. They are often wrapped in clothes, hiding their appearance and strongly dislikes skin contact. They are infected with an odd version of the sickness, but keeps it hidden under their many layers of clothing.

#I did a thing #please send me asks about this au #please I love it #slenderverse dnd au #dnd au #dani speaks #Slenderverse #marble hornets #mh #EverymanHYBRID #emh #TribeTwelve #t12 #MLAndersen0 #mla0 #Stan Frederick #the record of stan frederick #ECKVA #eckvanet

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pseudoneiiric · 4 years

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meta post: lili and her gender

let me go on the record to say that i fucking love lilian eyler with my whole heart, like, i typed all this out and im so fucking emotional about her! in the past, i've written things about hello charlotte and how the lgbt representation is... lacking, let's call it, and i've also made a few headcanon posts here and there about lilian's transition and her relationship with gender. so i thought, you know, let's actually write a whole ass thing about it. so here it is.

content warnings: gender dysphoria, suicide attempts, homophobia/transphobia in the original source material

PART 1: ETHERANE'S BAD TAKES so... etherane did not handle lgbt stuff well, like, in the slightest. lili is canonically genderfluid, as seen in one of those little profile things that etherane drew that doesn't actually show up in any of the games. but her genderfluid identity isn't handled well at all in the actual source material. actually, in general, hello charlotte is pretty transphobic. to cite one example, there’s this journal entry in hello charlotte 3 talking about “defective” charlotte vessels, and one of the things that can make a charlotte vessel “defective” is for them to be born amab or intersex. this already has some really bad vibes, but then we remember also that one of the big functions of charlottes is apparently for them to be sexualized (yikes!!!!!) and so we also get this weird kind of like, “trans people aren’t hot” kind of take?

but anyway. when it comes to lilian specifically, she never actually states in canon that she’s genderfluid or otherwise trans, not even in the spinoff visual novel, which, by the way, would have been the perfect place to address her gender identity, and she consistently uses he/him pronouns. we don’t actually get to see any of her thought processes about her gender at all — like at this point, i can’t even say it’s a non-issue because that would imply that they even mentioned her gender in canon. the only time we can potentially extrapolate from canon that lili might not be cis is when anri mentions that charlotte is lili’s self-insert oc. that’s kind of heavy-handed with the whole “charlotte being the female name for charles”, but that’s another matter. the point is, with the lack of any canon basis that lilian’s even vaguely questioned her gender, the reveal that she’s actually genderfluid with like, two pieces of artwork that are detached from the actual game feels very pxrfxrmxtxvxly xnclxsxvx (performatively inclusive) especially considering how.... etherane talked about lilian’s gender in particular within the actual canon material.

after all, the story behind lilian is effectively that, after she was born, her mother was forced to abort her second child, a daughter that she would name scarlett. doing so plunged her into a really deep depression that eventually took on delusional qualities. so ever since lilian was about three years old, her mother has been referring to her exclusively as scarlett, asking her to ‘ be a good girl ’ and similarly raising her as a girl. we can see here that etherane seems to have implied that genderfluidity is something that happens because other people make it so, and isn’t an identity and lived experience. (bad take!) although, albeit unintentionally, i think etherane did lay some groundwork to talk about lilian’s relationship with her gender, specifically with regards to her projection onto her oc, charlotte. in high school, when she’s more active on the internet, we see that she’s going by charlotte and using she/her pronouns. anri, her irl friend, is pretty openly critical of that, but she sort of brushes off anri’s complaints and continues to present as feminine online. now, there’s this fanfic writer who goes by the pseudonym “c”, and lilian very quickly takes an interest in him. the way she talks to c, who doesn’t know her irl, compared anri, who does, is just like flat-out like they’re completely different people.

compare, her with c:

to her with anri:

i also wanted to mention that lili does occasionally act more “femininely” with anri, but it’s never to the extent that she does with c, and in general, affectionate banter is sort of... outright ridiculed in their friendship both ways. see this one exchange:

anri: >:) always up for some roasting lili: right? <3 <3 anri: now you’re the one being gross

unrelated but it fucking kills me that anri was like “ily <3” and lili went “gross” so she went “kys” and lili deadass goes “that’s better” like that’s what anri is referencing when she says “now you’re the one being gross” and im like... please just be healthy friends who don’t wish death on each other???

it’s also worth noting that c doesn’t know that she’s not “actually” a girl, and literally when they meet, she goes like, “it’s you who should be disappointed in me. charlotte turned out to be charles, whoops! i bet you were hoping that i’d be a cute girl.” and that’s... really depressing, like, she ended up really leaning into that cutesy side of her when she was talking to c and now she feels the need to be a lot more... sarcastic and bitter, like how she is with anri, because now c “knows the truth about her”, that she’s “actually been a guy all along”.

in any case, i think the intent that etherane was going for with this was kind of like... “lilian’s actually a repressed cis gay man!” which is . not great. it gives off this really gross vibes where it’s implied that since lili was raised as a girl and is into men, she got “confused” and started going by she/her online because she couldn’t come to terms with her sexuality or whatever. and that’s just such a bad take!!!

not to mention that a really important part of lili’s backstory is... her germaphobia. she has persistent delusions accompanied by visual hallucinations where she sees people as “parasites”, which visually manifests as them rotting or decomposing. because of that, she wears gloves all the time and is repulsed by physical touch. but when she meets c (whose real name is vincent) in person, she pretty much instantly goes for skin-to-skin contact with him, where she takes off her glove and holds his hand. and like, sure, that’s sweet, but that’s really not how mental illness... works. in the slightest. she doesn’t react at all when his hand touches hers, despite the fact that she has literally had panic attacks in canon from touching things without her gloves. and it gives off this implication that mental illness can be cured with romance somehow, and that’s a really bad take!

this feeds into fandom understanding that like, well, if lilian sees vincent as pure and allows him to touch her, then Obviously she’d let him kiss her, they could probably have sex, etc. and like... she’s canonically asexual though! and that brings us to the other implication, that asexuality is somehow... caused by something. like, there’s nothing in canon to state that lilian experiences sexual attraction (or even really romantic attraction, like i know etherane went off in heaven’s gate and did a lot of ship tease, but she never really outright says she’s crushing on anyone), but judging from the way etherane handled lilian’s gender identity, i have a sneaking suspicion that she established lilian’s asexuality with her mental illnesses specifically in mind. lilian’s autistic, germaphobic, has severe ocd, and she’s been sexually assaulted in the past. therefore, she must be asexual! that’s the sort of vibes i get from the game, and im not here for it. similarly to how her genderfluidity was handled, she makes no actual statement in canon that she doesn’t experience sexual attraction. the closest she’s ever come to this is when she says to anri in heaven’s gate that she is just straight up not interested in kissing (to which anri is like, “well what if it were vincent owo??” which. ugh. anyway). it just seems really strange to me to design a character with severe mental health issues with regards to physical touch and then just sort of treat it as a given that she’s asexual. it’s another example of etherane implying that lgbt identities are results of traumatic experiences or symptoms of mental illness and not an identity or lived experience. you can be sex-repulsed and not be asexual, and while i understand that many people do identify as ace due to trauma and other such things, it still feels like really bad rep when taken with the way lilian’s genderfluidity was portrayed.

PART 2: HOW “CHARLES” IS DIFFERENT FROM “LILIAN”

throughout hello charlotte, lilian identifies herself as a passive observer, someone who doesn’t directly interfere in events. this applies mostly to her existence in false realm, where she’s like... a god, and doesn’t want to interfere in the balance of the world. but i believe she also has always seen herself as an observer. in her very first scene, the one where she and anri are watching someone get bullied, she’s the one who tells anri that there’s no point in getting help. because her role is just to observe. to take pictures for anri, to be a good girl, to say yes to everything and to never express her opinions, feelings, thoughts.

and honestly, i think the main reason for that is that she’s dysphoric. whenever she talks about herself, she’s really self-deprecating, especially compared to when she talks about charlotte. i feel like the main reason why lilian detaches herself from the world and refuses to really perceive herself is because she’s fundamentally disgusted with her gender presentation. and like, we can see in the two times that she’s presented femininely (with c and in that one comic) that lili is just so much happier and more bubbly when she’s presenting as feminine. you can literally see her stop dissociating and becoming more present in the moment because she’s just. so much more comfortable in her skin. compare:

these pictures with this one:

it’s funny i was going to say that there is a picture where she’s presenting as masculine and actually smiles like a person, but guess what! she’s texting c! so she’s actually performing femininity!

but the point is, like... when she’s presenting as masculine, especially in the canon pictures rather than etherane’s art, she just doesn’t look... happy. and then we compare that to how much more present she seems when she’s presenting as feminine, and how much more comfortable she seems in being, like, happy! and cute! but there is a downside to this. and that is...

PART 3: DIFFICULTIES IN LILI’S TRANSITION

in my sort of... “main verse” for lili, i have it so that her suicide attempt failed and that she was somehow... saved from drowning. mother passes away and she starts to... soul search a little bit and find a reason to live, and somewhere along the line she starts to transition socially. that means she starts transitioning at a pretty... extremely vulnerable point in her life. in the year between 18-19 years old, she’d be a wreck. she’s growing her hair out, but she feels insecure about it. she starts to wear skirts, but only at home. she buys makeup and never wears it. it’s a long process for her, because it’s one thing to go by she/her online or to claim she’s just a gender-confused gay boy and a completely different thing to come out as a trans woman and to actually see herself as a woman and not some kind of imposter. considering that she was raised as a girl, she would have a large amount of guilt over transitioning, feeling like she’s going to be seen as confused, or that her gender identity is a direct result of her childhood trauma. but she’s not just worried that others will see her that way: she’s worried that she’s going to see herself that way.

and for a long time, she probably does see herself that way. for a long time, scarlett would probably treat her transition as some kind of attempt to personify her unborn sister and comply with perceived expectations rather than an attempt to feel comfortable in her own skin. she’d get nervous that she’s somehow becoming scarlett, because though she’s always thought it would be easier if she’d just been her sister, she’s never really wanted to be scarlett. she’d be scared to wear mid-length skirts, scared to put her hair up in a bun, probably even scared to wear red for a time, all because she’s scared of somehow losing herself and becoming her alter.

because of her caution and concern with identifying as a trans woman and not as the “safer“ gender identity of genderfluidity (where she can say she’s trans but never actually have to “push boundaries” by wearing feminine clothing or using any pronouns besides he/him), it would likely take her a very long time to take the step to medically transition. she’d likely never get any gender affirmation surgeries just because of how invasive the procedure is, but hormones would probably be something she’d look into once she’s much older and has a more stable income.

i mentioned before that before her transition, she uses dissociation and observation as a way to cope with her gender dysphoria. she saw herself as someone who didn’t really participate in the world, was a class ghost, invisible to everyone and a minuscule part of a vast universe. but upon transitioning, she’d feel much more actively self-conscious. once she starts to present in a feminine way, she’d feel like she’s being seen, like she’s actually participating in the world, and that’s both a blessing and a curse.

she’d be much more prone to stammering, especially when saying her name, and would blush far more often. she’d be afraid of saying the wrong thing or messing up somehow. and on top of that, she’d likely feel predatory for talking to others, always wondering if others find her cute or repulsive, always wondering if someone will perceive her and harm her in some way.

she’d very likely also feel really guilty about her own emotional experience. because she’s so used to being a passive observer, a puppet that only does what others want, she would feel like it’s selfish to be just... content. she’s so actively disgusted with herself before she transitions that she’s never allowed herself to be mentally present for a happy moment in her entire life. she always second-guesses, always dismisses positive things as a mere coincidence, and after she transitions, when she starts being more present in her life, she’d feel so guilty for just allowing herself to be happy.

because of that, she has some trouble with presenting as feminine consistently — she’d vary the “level” of her feminine presentation from day-to-day, where she might go full femme one day and another day stick with a beanie and a pair of slacks. she’s much more comfortable with presenting as more traditionally feminine when she’s at home or with trusted friends in a private space, but around 19 years old, she makes a vested effort to remain in public spaces. she’d time herself, saying, “for one hour, i’ll stay in this café while wearing a skirt, and then i can leave,” and she’d gradually increase the amount of time she spends in public spaces. and eventually, eventually she does end up feeling really comfortable with her gender presentation and falls into a more static sense of style. she really likes clothing design, so she ends up wearing a lot more dynamic outfits when she’s more comfortable with herself, and she probably also mildly gets into cosplay.

i also like to think that she reconnects with anri during her young adult years. either it’s like, right after her suicide attempt (i’ve written before that she’d had anri listed as her emergency contact and forgot to change it when she moved), or it’s at some point after she starts transitioning socially. i think it’d be really sweet for them to be friends in a more real way, and the sheer concept of anri teaching lili how to properly apply makeup and to set her hair is just so fucking sweet i might die. they both deserve to have friends so i think this is just a step up from hello charlotte canon.

#long post //#lilian eyler: study.#ive been working on this post for days. im fuckign emotional about her

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