Lynn

Summary: Everett Ross faced the most unexpected body search of his career, as several tendrils from other dimensions silently slithered around him, suspending him mercilessly in midair.

The meeting with Stephen Strange had lasted far longer than anticipated. The CIA, proud of their procedures and notoriously uncompromising in negotiations, usually held the upper hand—but this time, the counterpart, the Sanctum Supreme, presented Ross with unprecedented difficulty. He had expected resistance, but never such a complete, unyielding refusal.

The sharp, unreasonable words on the document caught the eye of the Sorcerer Supreme. His gaze shifted to Agent Ross’s face, and the pale eyes no longer radiated calm tolerance—they were utterly cold, like a storm crystallized into a stare.

“Agent Ross,” Strange’s voice was low, each word edged with chill, “you, and the agency you represent, appear to have made a fatal misunderstanding. The Sanctum is not your outpost, and the sorcerers here are not suspects to be deployed or inspected at your whim. The reality we protect is far more dangerous than all the missions you’ve ever undertaken combined.”

“This so-called ‘agreement’…” Strange’s fingers twitched, and the document rose of its own accord, slamming onto the desk in front of Ross. “It insults that protection and tramples the dignity of sorcerers. My answer is no.”

“This isn’t about requests, nor dignity, Strange,” Ross’s voice remained steady. He had faced many tense situations; the Supreme Sorcerer’s anger carried no more weight than anyone else’s. The CIA’s top agent negotiated with the same composure as always. “This is simply procedure. Oversight. A necessary process. Anyone entering this facility— not just you—must undergo a body search. For everyone’s safety.”

“So you must treat them like criminals? Even inside the Sanctum, every sorcerer checked from head to toe every day?” Strange’s tone finally sharpened with sarcasm, the collar of his floating cloak rising slightly in annoyance. “Wake up. It won’t even detect the simplest mirror-space disguises. The only effect is wasted patience—and unnecessary hostility and trouble.”

“Regardless, it still needs confirmation…”

Ross persisted, but a flicker of anger crossed Strange’s eyes. He seemed tired of this endless loop of debate. Meetings with Ross always teetered between negotiation and some undefinable personal boundary, but this one was far from pleasant. He decided to break the cycle first.

“Very well,” the sorcerer said softly. “Since you are so eager to enforce this procedure, I trust you won’t mind experiencing the full inspection yourself.”

With that, Strange didn’t even gesture elaborately—just a thought, and Ross suddenly felt the air around him thicken with a viscous ripple. The next moment, he didn’t see the attack coming—only felt his ankles clamp tight, an irresistible force yanking him upward.

The world spun, his vision inverted and then righted.

Tendrils emerged without warning from the void beside him, snaking around his wrists, ankles, and waist, suspending him several feet above the library floor. Ross struggled instinctively, his silver suit stretching under the sudden restraint.

“Strange!” Everett’s voice trembled with anger and disbelief. This was total, unnerving loss of control. “What does this mean?!”

“A body search, as you requested,” Strange replied calmly, a trace of amusement in his tone. Circling the suspended Ross, he surveyed him slowly. “Since you are so enthusiastic, we’ll start with you.”

“It’s… not the same.” Ross gritted his teeth. The tendrils weren’t cold; they were warm, almost alive, gliding along his body curves, probing every inch for hidden irregularities. The sensation was disconcerting, far beyond anything his training could anticipate. “I did not—”

A tendril coiled over his mouth, silencing him.

Dexterous, the tendrils probed inside his suit pockets, withdrawing a seemingly ordinary pen. With a flick, it separated, revealing a concealed electronic explosive, dropping onto the carpet.

Ross’s jaw tightened. He hadn’t planned to use such devices in the Sanctum; technology rarely worked here. This was habit, carried long-term as part of his professional precautions.

Next, the tendrils uncovered deeper secrets: blades hidden in belt crevices, powdered substances beneath watch dials, coin-shaped signal jammers, spare magazines, micro handguns…

The tendrils explored every fold, every hidden pocket, shaking out each item with ruthless precision. Objects clattered and jingled onto the floor at Strange’s feet.

Ross couldn’t speak. His face betrayed a mix of anger, embarrassment, and incredulity. All his tools, all his contingencies, laid bare in the most absurd, complete way. He struggled again—ineffectively—suppressing the instinctive shiver the tendrils triggered.

Finally, one tendril even retrieved a nearly invisible earpiece and placed it neatly atop the pile of “contraband.”

Strange’s voice rang out lazily; he even nudged the pile with a foot. “Seems your inspection checklist is far more extensive than the Sanctum’s apprentices’, yet it’s never mentioned in your document.”

Once done, the tendrils vanished as suddenly as they appeared.

Ross’s feet hit the floor; he stepped back half a pace, breathing fast, straightening his disheveled suit with tense, dignity-reclaiming motions. He drew a deep breath, eyes like blades fixed on Strange still leaning against the doorframe.

Strange watched, calm as always, though a faint trace of a satisfied smile lingered in his blue eyes.

“Now, do you need further discussion on how you intend to inspect my sorcerers?” he asked gently, as if the prior spectacle were nothing. “Or shall I help you return these little items to their proper places?”

“No need.” Ross suppressed all rising emotions, bent to gather the scattered tools, and carefully replaced them in their hidden compartments. When the last item was stowed, his gaze avoided Strange, landing on the document he had brought, returning it to his briefcase.

“I’ll convey the Sanctum’s feedback in full,” he said, trying to sound composed but still betraying lingering unease. “This document… will be reassessed.”

He didn’t apologize, nor admit defeat. This was merely a tactical retreat in negotiation—albeit executed in an unprecedented manner.

Strange nodded slightly, accepting this “non-concession” in measured tone, as if the near-complete exposure of a top agent hadn’t been his doing. “I look forward to your revised results, if they better reflect ‘respect.’”

“That depends on cooperation progress. I’ll push it as much as I can,” Ross replied formally, closing the episode with a professional edge.

He spoke no more, turning away with purposeful, though slightly hurried, steps, merging into the night and rain.

The Sanctum gates closed behind him, cutting off the outside world—and the humiliating, unforgettable body search.

Easter Egg (Ross & Strange’s Mental States)

A night wind brushed across Everett Ross’s neck and the still-sensitive skin. He stopped abruptly, leaning against the cold, rough brick wall, eyes closed, recalling the tendrils’ touch.

A shiver ran through him.

The sensation was not just fear or anger—it was a complex, physiological tremor left by absolute domination, by being stripped of control and mastered entirely. Deeper, intimate memories awakened—the warm, slippery, sentient-like tendrils coiling around his limbs and torso, suspending him, denying him control. How they traced his body without pain, yet with intimate scrutiny, gliding beneath the suit over muscles, brushing ribs, probing hidden compartments, sending tingling, nearly violating currents through his skin, shaking out every secret. The sensation of complete control was both humiliating and… strangely compelling.

All he could recall was the helplessness of being suspended and Strange’s gaze, so fully in control, tinged with amusement.

Ross shook his head sharply, forcing his mind back to the mission, to the reassessment document, severing the too-clear memory chain. Damn magic.

In the Sanctum library, Stephen Strange remained standing. The magical ripple from the tendrils had completely dissipated.

He watched Ross leave, the faint smile he hadn’t noticed fading, replaced by something complex. Strange didn’t enjoy humiliating others, but sometimes practical demonstration was far more effective than endless debate.

Ross, stubborn yet not malicious, relied heavily on technology and combat tools, but his human vulnerability was undeniable. Strange could almost feel how the agent’s confidence—built on tech and firepower—had collapsed and rebuilt within those few minutes.

He hoped the lesson was clear: some forces cannot be infringed upon, regulated by a document. And to convey this in a way Ross could understand, he had relied on overwhelming force.

Admittedly, there was a private, even slightly malicious satisfaction in seeing a man so used to control suspended, flushed with anger and helplessness. It had nothing to do with CIA files or dimensional security—purely personal curiosity, observing the human beneath the agent, the one who could be embarrassed, shiver, and feel exposed.

Guardians are lonely. Strange knew this was dangerous, but occasionally, protecting billions of dimensions allowed a tiny indulgence of his own… Stephen Strange’s private amusement.

“Wang,” Strange turned calmly, as if nothing had happened. “Arrange the ritual in the meditation room. I need to conduct a dimensional patrol tonight.”

The Sorcerer Supreme must always focus on real threats—not play power games with the CIA—but perhaps next time, if there is a next time, he might negotiate in a gentler, more conventional manner—more easily accepted by an agent.

Summary: A sudden chill swept over Everett’s spine as he finally understood—why Strange had agreed to this meeting, why his behavior had been so abnormal since the very beginning. He wasn’t here for a CIA evaluation. —He was here to confirm his prey. ❗ Warning: Fork & Cake AU, HE ending.

❗ Warning: #EverStrange

1.

It wasn’t Everett’s first visit to the Sanctum, but for the first time, his instincts as an agent screamed the wildest of alarms. After a moment’s thought, he still chose to step cautiously into the inner hall. A lone figure stood with his back to him in the center, wrapped in that iconic levitating cloak.

“Long time no see, Strange.” Everett stopped, keeping a safe distance—ever since half a year ago, the Sorcerer Supreme’s condition had been unstable. No one knew the reason, but instability inevitably meant potential danger. Ross’s mission this time was to confirm both the Sanctum’s state and the condition of the man before him.

Given their personal acquaintance, the chances of surviving such an investigation were much higher with him in charge. Besides, Ross himself worried about his friend. When long-term online contact failed, he decided on a face-to-face meeting.

He steadied his breath and carefully greeted: “No need to tense up. Just a routine evaluation, same as before… making sure you’re still stable.” As he spoke, his eyes swept the hall, trying to note every detail, searching for the source of the warning gnawing at his senses.

Then he realized—the danger didn’t come from the environment. It came from the man slowly turning toward him.

“My condition?”

Stephen Strange faced him. His handsome features were sharper, thinner than six months ago, and his once icy-blue eyes now churned with a storm of dark crimson.

He looked at Ross, not as one greets an old friend, but as a starving man sizes up his first meal in ages.

“I’m fine.” Strange let out a low laugh, lips curving faintly. “I’ve never been so… clear about what I need.”

He stepped closer. The oppressive aura prickled Everett’s skin, like invisible eyes licking over him.

“What is it you need, Doctor?” Ross didn’t retreat. His hand dangled loosely at his side, but only an inch from his holster. Every muscle was taut.

“A cure. Six months ago, a dimensional beast nearly devoured London while you weren’t looking.” The Sorcerer’s voice cracked with weariness, tinged by pain and craving. “The cost of fixing it was greater than I imagined. It didn’t destroy me, but it changed me… warped my senses.”

Strange stepped forward again—just one step—and Ross felt the crushing weight of it, his body frozen though every nerve screamed to flee.

“Since that day, things around me lost their presence… worse than you could ever imagine. I’ve been trapped in a hell of eternal numbness.”

Everett’s heart skipped. Strange had mentioned dangers and consequences before, but never had Ross imagined they’d come true. The man had borne this torment for half a year.

“Until recently,” Strange went on, “I began to perceive someone—faint, yet so vivid. The traces he left here became my only, overwhelming sense of existence.”

His gaze locked tighter, hunger made flesh.

Another chill surged up Everett’s spine as realization struck. Strange wasn’t here for the CIA’s evaluation. —He was here to confirm his prey.

2.

“You…” Ross’s voice rasped as he edged subtly toward the door. “Doctor, there’s something wrong with your body. I’ll bring people to run a thorough check.”

“Wrong? No, it’s perfect.” Strange’s smile widened—stripped of warmth, steeped in obsession. “It’s never guided me so precisely. It tells me… my only nourishment is right in front of me.”

Scarlet tendrils lashed out of the void in a blur of speed and force, coiling toward Ross with raw, possessive intent.

Ross sprang back, gun drawn and firing in a heartbeat. But the bullets froze in midair before reaching the cloak, without even a ripple. Tentacles wrapped his wrist, forcing the gun from his grip, yanking him skyward. His bones creaked under the strain.

“Let me go, Strange!” Ross snarled, thrashing in vain. The tendrils roved over him like a predator testing its catch, scratching his skin. A bead of blood welled at his neck.

Strange’s eyes flared crimson.

He blinked into Ross’s face, brushed the blood with a finger, and licked it.

“…Delicious.” His head tipped back, a gasp of rapture escaping like a drowning man gulping air. When he looked again, his eyes blazed with naked hunger, sharper than ever.

Ross stared at him—the guardian turned beast, ruled now by primal appetite. Training snapped into place: brute force failed, escape impossible, but some shred of reason lingered.

“Strange!” he shouted, desperate to reach the man he once knew. “Look at me! You’re not some mindless predator—you’re the Sorcerer Supreme!”

“The Sorcerer Supreme?” Strange sneered, fingers drifting across his prey’s throat, savoring the pulse beneath. “The Sorcerer Supreme only wants to feed. That’s the only cure—I can see it.”

The tentacles pressed sharp against Ross’s skin. He shut his eyes, bracing for death.

But the strike never came.

Strange trembled violently, clutching his own hair, knuckles white.

“Why does it have to be you?” His voice broke with agony. “I shut myself away, but as long as you exist in this dimension, I can sense you—the only one…”

He raised his head, desire still burning, but his willpower clawed its way back.

“I know what happens if I give in.” He panted, hand hovering close then freezing. “I’d lose you—and become a monster for good.”

Forehead pressed to Ross’s, his whisper frayed into raw defiance: “No. I can’t.”

The scarlet tendrils reluctantly loosened, shrinking away at Strange’s command until they vanished. Ross collapsed to the carpet, coughing, bruised and gasping—but still looking at the Sorcerer first.

Strange stood wrecked, hunger buried deep but not gone.

“Leave, Ross. Before I lose control again.”

Every instinct screamed for Everett to flee. But he stayed. He saw the tremor in Strange’s shoulders, heard the hoarse “I can’t,” and knew—this wasn’t a monster out of control. This was a man fighting one.

He stepped closer.

“Stephen,” he said, voice steady, “maybe you don’t need to endure or devour me. What if… there’s another way?”

Strange’s head snapped up.

“You said I was the cure.” Ross pressed on, heartbeat thunderous, tone calm. “Consuming flesh is primal. But you’re a sorcerer—the Sorcerer Supreme of Earth and beyond. There must be another solution.”

It was a gamble. On magic he barely understood, and on Strange’s last shreds of reason.

The Sorcerer faltered, thought flickering back into his eyes. “And if it fails?”

Ross met his gaze. “…Then at least I tried. I won’t go down screaming like prey.”

After a long silence, Strange reached out. Cold magic surged through Ross, analyzing every fiber of him. The sensation was unbearable, but Ross didn’t flinch. Strange’s sweat beaded, his will locked in battle with instinct—until suddenly, he gasped.

“Found it.” His voice rasped with disbelief and clarity. “You’re right. No harm, no feeding… only time and energy.”

Golden light gathered at his fingertip, pressing to Ross’s brow. Not hunger, but pure Vishanti magic.

There was no pain. Only a subtle shift, something drawn out of him, carefully guided away.

When Ross awoke, he lay on the sofa under a blanket. Strange sat across, eyes once more blue and clear. The danger was gone.

“It’s over.” His voice was stiff with shame and relief. He couldn’t meet Ross’s gaze.

Ross rose, poured tea the way Strange liked it, and set the cup before him. No forgiveness, no pity—just calm fact.

At last, Strange’s trembling fingers accepted it. “Thank you,” he whispered.

Later, he urged Ross to report the truth to the CIA. Ross’s sharp reply laid out the cost: Strange would be locked away, studied for years, while Ross lost an ally, a friend. “That’s a losing deal for me.”

So they agreed: the official story would be a dimensional breach, a fierce battle, collateral injuries—nothing more.

At the door, Ross paused with a wry grin. “Next time, change your tea. God, have you really let it sit for half a year? It’s unbearably bitter.”

He left, swallowed by the fading light of New York.

Strange sat alone, staring at the cooling tea in his hand.

Ross was right. Bitter as sin.

But Strange lifted the cup and drank it all the same. ————————

Another Bad Ending:

Ross gritted his teeth, silently enduring the terrifying force tightening around him.

The turning point came when most of Strange’s focus was consumed by his battle against himself. The Sorcerer Supreme clutched his head, and for a brief moment, the control of the crimson tendrils faltered. On Ross’s body, a device gifted by a friend—one never before revealed—suddenly became viable for activation. Ordinary weapons might not harm a sorcerer, but this was from Wakanda, enough to severely wound a distracted sorcerer at close range.

The opportunity lasted only a heartbeat.

Ross stared at Strange’s back as the man fought desperately against his other self. The sorcerer’s cloak rippled under invisible forces. Strange had already lost nearly everything to this world, and still he battled the demons within.

Ross’s finger twitched… and finally, he let go.

He chose not to.

“So this is how the Sorcerer Supreme resolves things?” Ross forced his voice into calm steadiness. “Giving in to instinct and devouring the people you know. Honestly, I never thought you’d be that kind of man.”

The crimson tendrils snapped taut, betraying the turmoil in their master’s heart. The taste of blood rose in Ross’s throat.

“The antidote… only you can…” Strange’s voice wavered between reason and primal hunger.

“Eat me, and then what?” Ross stepped closer instead of retreating. Though his heart pounded wildly, he locked eyes with those inhuman, glowing red pupils. “Hide away in your Sanctum again, until you find the next cure? That’s the future you’ve mapped out, Doctor?”

“Shut up.” Strange snarled. Arcane energy coiled around Ross, drawing him closer. Strange’s teeth bared, caught on the razor edge of temptation.

Ross felt the searing breath on his neck, sensed the trembling of a body struggling against itself. And then, he made a perilous move.

He tilted his head slightly, baring the line of his throat—an utterly trusting yet dangerously vulnerable gesture. His voice was low, clear:

“Think, Stephen… what do you really want? A meal you’ll forget in moments,” he paused, almost whispering, “or a flavor that lasts?”

The magic binding him froze.

Strange went rigid. Deep within those ravenous eyes, something flickered—a fragile spark fighting to pierce the suffocating darkness.

A lasting flavor…

Ross didn’t move. He couldn’t. “You’ve caged so many monsters… even yourself. Haven’t you ever thought of another way? A way to cage a flavor?”

A long, suffocating silence stretched between them.

Finally, Strange let out a soul-wracked sigh, the kind torn from deep within. The crimson tendrils slowly shifted, reshaping into a complex sigil. It locked gently around Ross’s wrist like an indelible brand.

The lethal hunger ebbed—not gone, but replaced by something darker, more possessive.

“You’re right, Ross.” Strange’s voice carried a sorcerer’s reason, though twisted by shadow. “A one-time meal… would be wasteful.”

He raised a hand, fingertips brushing the warm skin of Ross’s neck, where the vein pulsed with the taste he craved. His touch carried a chilling tenderness.

“You need to be in a place of absolute safety,” he murmured, as if delivering a verdict. “My Sanctum. From now on, it will be your home too.”

A crimson portal spiraled open beside them, revealing a room both warm and confining.

Ross met eyes that no longer held only hunger. He realized he had won survival—yet perhaps lost a measure of freedom. But he also knew, for this Strange, this was the closest he could come to possession… and to protection.

He gave the Sorcerer Supreme one last look. Then, of his own will, he stepped through the portal.