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sobeautifullyobsessed · 11 months

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I'm watching The Two Towers while I scroll, and all the romantic & angsty Arwen scenes (especially the ones that seem as dreams) have me in a soft, longing, romantic mood. So, here's some romantic Stephen Strange from an old WIP. Mayhap someone out in tumblrland might find it pleasing. From chapter fifteen of...

Of Magic, Miracles, and Moonlight...

...wherein Stephen goes to sleep longing for his woman, detained for now far across the galaxy ~ and her own longing for him is enough for them to meet somewhere in a dream...

(contains some mature content, although not explicit)

Finally, Stephen slept; he’d gone nearly seventy-two hours without a wink of sleep, so that his head had barely touched the pillow, and he was out like a light, falling swiftly and deeply, exactly as the needs of his body dictated. Likely he dreamed throughout those many hours--as the dusk outside the New York Sanctum changed first to the deep dark of the night, and then to rosy dawn, and finally to mid-day--but he did not remember them upon waking. Only one stayed with him, and he wasn’t even certain it was a true dream--for when he awoke from it, it had seemed so vital, so true to life (and to his heart’s desires) that he wished it was reality.

In this dream—or vision…or perhaps it was a sending from the mind and heart of his woman, who remained upon her impossibly distant world—he stood in the midst of the grove of keyanna trees which she had shown him before he took his leave of her. Their fragrance was as lovely as he had remembered, surrounding him as the gentlest of breezes whispered against his upturned face and through the errant locks of hair that hung perpetually upon his brow. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, filling his lungs with the trees perfume, and feeling the warmth of an alien sun kiss his face. It was good, so very good; a pause from his responsibilities and cares, a welcome respite from the burdens that he bore—not that he ever complained aloud, but some days…well, some days he wished for just a few hours without the worry that came along with being a Sanctum Master, and the constant knowing of the countless threats that existed to humanity, in all its blissful ignorance.

How relaxed he felt, how at peace, thinking this was as close to a vacation that he’d likely get in a very, very long time. He wasn’t even wearing his usual tunic and breeches; just the same sort of casual attire he adopted on the nights when he and Teyla stole what time they could with one another, away from the confines of compound and sanctum. It occurred to him that the moment lacked only one thing—the most important thing—the one thing that was the most crucial of all to his happiness.

As if summoned by that thought alone, Teyla called out his name; Stephen smiled, hearing her as much in his mind and heart as with his ears--as he so often did these days. He opened his eyes to look for her, and saw her approaching from a distance, with a dreamlike grace that made his knees weak. The bright sunlight streamed through the flower-laden branches, painting her skin with a soft, healthy glow; the wind stirred the trees gently, wafting the pale lavender petals around her, leaving some to be caught in her unbound hair. Stephen covered his heart with his right hand; it felt so full of love and joy at the vision of his sweet woman that it seemed like it might burst, if he allowed it to.

Clad in a pale blue shift that was gathered beneath her breasts and fell in soft ripples mid-calf, Teyla walked barefoot through the drifts of fallen keyanna blossoms. Her eyes were set upon him, and she was smiling a beckoning smile, pure with her love for him, as she held out her arms to motion him closer. “Stephen… Beloved,” she called to him, like a perfect piece of music meant for his ears alone, and as an irresistible whisper in his mind. “This is the place, my Beloved; the place where I would lay with thee, beneath the bright sun, beneath the sister-moons and diamond-stars.” Stephen swallowed hard, awe-struck, love-struck, feeling her quiet beauty in his blood, recognizing his weakness for her, and happy that of all the souls in the cosmos, she was the one that had claimed his heart. “This, Stephen; this is the place where I would gladly give myself to thee.”

His dream-self recognized with a soft pang of regret that she had meant it to be the place, and thus was surely no small part of the reason that Teyla had brought him to the grove, so vividly awash in Nonya’s beneficent light. Once there, she had revealed that she’d dreamed of them together in this place; dreams in which they lay together skin-on-skin. And swept up in that longing, she had then shown him her desire.

As he pondered the meaning of his vision—astounded at how real it felt--Teyla closed the distance between them easily, and stood before him, soft and sweet and oh so willing. Why, Stephen could taste her willingness on the very breeze that caressed his skin, feel it in the way the sunlight danced through the keyanna leaves, hear it in the rapid beating of his heart. She smiled serenely, and with perfect understanding of everything he was feeling—including his suspicion that something, or someone, might prevent her from returning to Earth—she whispered his name as she draped her arms around his neck. “Dismiss that fear, Beloved, for I will return to thee—no force in the universe can keep me from your side for long.” Teyla rose up on her toes—as she so often needed to do when she faced him in the flesh--to reach his lips and kiss him tenderly.

“Of course; how could I think otherwise?” he answered, relief flooding his veins--finding her dream-form substantial enough to embrace; not the mist of some sweet reverie, but the real woman whom he ached for with every breath he drew. “Am I dreaming this, or are we somehow here together?”

“We are together, my love, in a realm somewhere between dreams and waking.” How wise she was, how patient and loving; his Teyla, his beloved one, and in that moment he knew he’d be willing to sell his soul to have her be his forever. “Oh, my love, my Stephen—know you not that I already am?” Her smile dazzled him, as he accepted the knowledge from her mind to his, that come what may, her heart had chosen him, had committed to him eternally as was the ancient way of her people; only later, as he considered his dream-vision upon waking, did he realize that Teyla’s mother had bonded in the same way with Walter Charles--which had to account for much of the beauty in his creations featuring her.

“Yes. My sweet Teyla,” he smiled, drawing her against him, patient enough for the future that awaited them together. He let his face hover over hers, drinking in the purity of the love and trust reflected in her eyes, and letting it fill him to the brim, refreshing him as no twelve-hour sleep ever could. He took her offered lips with his, slowly and softly to begin with, tasting all that she promised, her devotion, her desire. Tasting all that she offered him; a lifetime spent at his side as lover and helpmate; as his ‘better half’ in the parlance of Earth. Stephen had never desired such a profound connection to another soul in his old life—but now, it seemed essential not only to his existence, but to the accomplishment of his mystical purpose.

When he broke from their kiss, Teyla sighed against his lips, then buried her face against his neck, breathing him in, humming contentedly. “What comes next, honey?” Stephen stroked her hair, soothing himself as much as he did her, “How long do you think it will take until can rejoin me on Earth?”

She sighed hard this time, delivering regretful news, “I cannot say with certainty, Beloved. To fulfill my obligation, and for the sake of my people, it may be several days.” Teyla hesitated briefly, before quietly admitting that Moraine might present a further obstacle to her departure from Hadeeth. “She will use every entreaty at her disposal to keep me close—but I will show her, Stephen—I will show her that I know my own mind and heart, and that I will not be dissuaded from the course I have chosen.” She spoke gently, but with full conviction against his ear, “The course that you and I have chosen together.”

Despite her avowal, Stephen wanted to hold onto her tighter than ever—but strangely, he began to feel their embrace weakening. Teyla answered before he could ask. “I will be called to Council chambers shortly. I regret I must turn my focus from thee now.” She backed out of his arms just enough to face him squarely, “And you, my love, must rest yourself, return to your world, and focus on the duties that await you.” She kissed him once more, and faced him with a knowing smile, before brushing her fingertips from the edge of his hairline to between his eyebrows, tracing a wee circle there. His sight began to dim, as true sleep overtook him, and as he exhaled his exhaustion, he fell away from her arms.

Upon awakening—and after mulling over his dream-vision, wishing with heartfelt immediacy to find his way back to the keyanna grove--Stephen’s first impulse was to check the Sanctum library for any texts that might explain his extraordinary experience. It had been far too real to be the mere fantasy of a man missing his lover, every sensory detail vivid enough that it seemed he could still taste Teyla’s kisses on his tongue and feel her tender caress against his cheek, while he swore that his room retained traces of scent from the keyanna trees. But as ever, his needs and wants were secondary to his duties, forcing him to set that quest aside until far later in the day.

Instead, he made his first order of business sending messages along to Wong and Master Salma, explaining Teyla’s absence from Kamar-Taj, and that he could not give them a timeframe for how long she might be detained upon Hadeeth. Though she had assured him in his dream that she would return, Stephen was left to wait—just as they were--with no clear idea of when to expect her.

His daily duties kept Stephen busy for a good part of the afternoon and early evening, so that he didn’t see himself clear to visit the library until after wolfing down a late supper. Fortunately, his gift of eidetic memory was crucial to his research, and in less than a couple of hours, he thought he had answers enough to understand what he’d experienced.

Lucid dreaming. That seemed to be the closest explanation for what had happened. Certainly Teyla had initiated it, across the immeasurable distances between them, enabled by her empathic gifts to reach out to him in spirit as he never could have imagined possible. In his studies since his first day at Kamar-Taj, and through a multitude of experiences since becoming a Master, Stephen had learned how powerful pure thought could be, capable of bridging time and vast distances beyond even the speed of light. But he had never imagined it affecting him so personally, so intimately. And now that he knew it was possible, he hoped he might reach out to Teyla in return.

Each night that followed, he settled into bed, relaxed enough from meditation to practice the techniques he had studied, his mind and heart focused on reaching her, spirit to spirit. But each night, to his disappointment, sleep took him before he even came close to succeeding.

By the fourth morning, Stephen’s exasperation with such failures—coupled with frustration that their separation seemed to be stretching on indefinitely—left him irritable, to carry out his responsibilities perfunctorily, while being uncharacteristically curt with those around him. Watching over the multiverse from his privileged vantage point of the Window of the World, he was tempted for the first time to use that auspicious tool for his own benefit, to hone in on Hadeeth and discover how Teyla was faring, and if indeed there was any hope she’d be free to return to Earth soon. Wisely, Stephen denied himself that urge, knowing that the use of magic for such a selfish purpose would ultimately rebound bitterly upon the user, and sometimes even exact unanticipated collateral damage.

On day five, his concern for her welfare far surpassed his need to have her at his side, as he imagined Moraine holding her daughter hostage of sorts, believing she was doing a mother’s service to a misguided child’s heart. Intellectually he knew it couldn’t be so, but the tender heart Teyla had awakened within him worried all the same. Even knowing that he might cause damage to Earth’s alliance with Hadeeth by acting rashly, Stephen had to tap into a lifetime habit of discipline—the selfsame that had forged his brilliant path to medical supremacy--to resist conjuring a portal directly to the People’s Citadel, or to the homey little cottage which Teyla called home. This fifth day, as he went about a Master’s tasks and continued his perpetual watch for threats against humanity--all while waiting for the night to come again--felt like the longest in his memory.

Exhausted in spirit and low on optimism Stephen took to his bed, thoughts of Teyla fixed in his mind’s eye, sending everything he felt for her out into the universe. Not trying to force his way to achieve his aim, and expecting nothing from the universe in return. And perhaps that was the simple, missing element needed to span the realities that lay between them.

His dream-self opened his eyes, and she was finally there before him, making his doubts and concerns evaporate like thin wisps of mist by day’s new light. They stood in a moonlit meadow, surrounded by Teyla’s talat akeylum, countless fragrant blossoms fully opened and nodding almost imperceptibly in the light breeze. The night was deep around them, filled with the lulling nighttime sounds of whatever small Hadeethan creatures and insects called the meadow home. The three moons rode high and brightly in the sky, one full, one half, and one a silvery crescent, their combined light painting the scene with lovely clarity—though that loveliness paled for him, as his eyes drank in the bewitching sight of his woman, the most exquisite blossom of them all. His Teyla.

For a moment, Stephen forgot how to breathe, overcome with awe, his heart beating like a trip-hammer in his chest. Even clad in the simple homespun robe she had worn at their first meeting, her hair piled up in a loose bun once again, Teyla stole his ability to reason. “Oh god,” he whispered, memorizing the details of her face as though he’d hadn’t already committed them to memory dozens of time; he breathed hard to keep his voice from breaking with emotion, “I miss you so much, honey…it feels like years since I’ve touched you…held you. Why haven’t you returned to me?”

She smiled and gave a little sigh before she answered. “My love--though I tarry here, all my soul is bent upon returning to your side. To your arms.” She stepped into him, and though Stephen knew they met in a realm of dreams, of spirit, the sweet, familiar scent of her hair and skin filled each breath he drew, putting to shame the fragrance of the moon blossoms around them. He wanted to taste her scent on his tongue, wear it on his skin, embed it in his very cells. “Stephen…Beloved…our time draws near, and I swear that your patience with me will find true fruition.” She lowered her lashes as she moved in to brush her lips on his, laying both hands against his chest.

How blessedly real it felt—and how he ached for more! He took her face in his hands, kissing her soundly, sinking into the dream as deeply as he could. The silk of her tongue against his, the little sounds she made in reply to his bold advances, the press of her body against him blessedly, sinfully real.

Soon enough, he had loosed the knot on the neck of her robe and tucked his fingers beneath the material to slide it from her shoulders. Teyla lowered her arms and shimmied the cloth away, leaving her robe to hang loose around her waist, laying her torso bare to him. Stephen nearly growled, grown desperate with hunger, grown rougher than he meant to be, raining fierce kisses on her dainty neck and slim shoulders, relishing her surprised gasps and how readily she yielded herself to his raw need.

He planted one hand against the small of her back, trapping Teyla against him, while she wove her fingers in his hair, purring deep in her throat when he cupped her breast in his free hand. He was certain the fury of his kisses had to be bruising her tender flesh, but she offered no complaint; she began to kiss his neck instead, her lips ever soft but insistent. She drifted one hand down to slide beneath the sleeve of his tee shirt, massaging his flesh firmly and surprising him when she murmured against his hair, “Please, Stephen…let me feel your skin against mine…I need to feel you…I need… you…”

He released her for only as long as it took to pull his shirt over his head, greedy to have her softness against him at last, no longer questioning how she could feel so real in his arms, nor how this dream, not-a-dream, surpassed any erotic dream he had ever had.

He pulled her to him, losing himself in the heated press of her naked flesh against his, in the divine sensation of her flawless little breasts rubbing against his chest, her tightened nipples evidencing her desire for him. Teyla moaned and let her head fall back as Stephen laid open mouthed kisses upon her throat, tasting the salt of her skin upon his tongue. She shuddered his name, sliding her arms beneath his to grip his shoulders, becoming her softest self, softly pliant as he lowered her onto a bed of moon blossoms.

He paused, hovering over her, mesmerized by her half-lidded eyes, her sweet parted lips, the quickened pant of her breath, nearly convinced that he had somehow transported bodily to her, and that Teyla lay beneath him at last, and for real. “I would I were, Beloved,” she told him, her smile bittersweet and piercing his heart, “I would couple with thee now, have you sate yourself inside of me…” Stephen took her welcoming mouth with his, a frisson of lust hastening through his blood when she slowly traced her tongue along the inner edge of his lips. The small part of his brain that remained rational, that knew this encounter was closer to dream than truth, was clouded by his desperate desire to know Teyla in every possible way.

“So beautiful, so perfect,” he panted as he kissed a path down her neck to her sternum, while she arched into his hands, whimpering softly at the greedy insistence of his grasp, and crying out when he circled her areola with the tip of his tongue, then tickled the stiff bud of her nipple before drawing it into his mouth. Teyla laid one palm on his cheek, and anchored her other hand in his hair, encouraging his play to continue.

He felt her beneath him as fully substantial; she moved against him as he touched her, arched into his caresses as lovers do, and he wondered how far they might actually go in this dream-like state—and if it was fair to Teyla to do so. She was touching him now as she never had before, sweeping her hands across his bare skin, sparking every nerve of his body with the ache to sink himself inside her. Stephen groaned hard, impatiently grinding his hips into hers, the thin material of his pajama bottoms unable to conceal his lust. Frustrated as much by the layers of cloth between them as by the knowledge of the actual physical distance separating them, he exclaimed shamelessly, “I want you…all of you…so badly, baby,” then licked his lips, craving her every flavor.

“I know, my love,” she assured him, “Even in my sleep, I have felt you wanting me, as far away as you are—and as I have longed for thee as well.”

Wanting her to comprehend the depth of his hunger, of his keen thirst for her, he raised his head enough to look into her eyes. “Teyla, my darling…my dear one...this is so much more than physical.” He read eager, equal desire in her soft, dark eyes. “I need you, honey. I need your presence. Need you at my side, filling my days with your patience and kindness…filling my heart with…with the wonder of your love.”

She nodded in quiet understanding, drawing his face close, and kissing him tenderly, “Even so, Stephen; you have become the cool shadow wherein I find my soul’s ease.” She murmured against his lips, “I shall have no peace of mind, no rest until I am with thee again.”

She drew his tongue into her mouth, giving such patient, gentle suction that the sensation surged through his solar plexus, his loins, his throbbing erection. Stephen grunted into her mouth, concentrating on stilling himself, fighting the urge to come—knowing that Teyla, in her innocence, was likely unaware of the power she held over him.

He rolled to her side, pulling her along with him, allowing some small space between them as they lay face to face, space enough for him to catch his breath and to restore his reason. Teyla blinked open her eyes, the trust there unwavering, silently signaling she would follow his lead wherever he wished. Stephen kissed her brow, as she snuggled against him, the raging of his blood receding a bit as he traced small, soothing circles along her cheek and the side of her neck. When he had calmed a bit more, he trusted himself to speak. “When, honey?” He sounded exhausted to his own ears, worn and ready for the oblivion of sleep. “When will you return to me, Teyla? Give me some hope I can hold you…and love you…for real, sometime soon.”

She was silent a moment, considering the most honest way to answer him. “No more than two days, Beloved. I have submitted to the repeated questioning of the Council, and they have gleaned all they can from my vision.” She did not mention that Moraine had applied what pressure she could to keep her on Hadeeth, but Stephen felt the truth from her nevertheless. “I am certain there is no more that I can do to provide for the safety of my people.” She moved in to kiss his jaw, unable to resist that smallest affection, while pressing one warm, soft hand against his chest. “I shall leave it to their wisdom, and follow my heart back to its home.” Her voice quavered, and Stephen knew that she was staving off tears for his sake. Teyla slid her hand to rest over his heart, adding softly, “Here, my love, is my heart’s true home. I will not be fully myself until you hold me in your strong, loving arms.”

He threaded his fingers in her hair, kissing her brow, feeling himself start to fade from her side, “I don’t want to leave you yet,” he whispered, “I’d just be happy to sleep here with you in my arms.”

“I know,” she sniffled, moving her hand into his hair as well, preparing to kiss him farewell, “But you are weary, Stephen, and cannot hold this form much longer. I have not the strength to hold you here myself, though I would if I could—believe me, love, I would!” Her kiss was pure and powerful, and sent visions into his mind of all the sweetness that they would share once she returned to Earth.

A few stolen minutes more was all they had, and Stephen—his blood fully cooled--held her chastely, exchanging quiet kisses and reassurances of what the near future held for them. Though he could feel himself withdrawing slowly from their shared dream as a sort of numbness overtook him, Stephen was surprised that Teyla faded away completely before he did—perhaps because the brunt of sustaining their connection had fallen upon her, and drained her more vitally. But she managed in those final moments, to charge him with preparing a special place for them, a bower that might suit a hungry suitor and his willing, waiting lover. Still caught halfway between the dream-world, and his own reality, Stephen rolled onto his back, watching wisps of clouds pass across the full moon, breathing deep the sweetness of the talat akeylum—and as sleep finally stole him completely back to his body on Earth, he began to imagine what sort of place might be worthy of the sweet gift that was Teyla’s promise to him.

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@mousedetective

Not tagging anyone else today - simply offering this to anyone longing for taste of Romance.

buy me a coffee?☕

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thehiddenlawyer · 6 years

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I mean if you’re having a long week @sobeautifullyobsessed, have no fear, Ish is here

Link to this gorgeous story:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/11009052/chapters/24527688

#streyla mood board #streyla #of magic miracles and moonlight #sobeautifullyobsessed #doctor strange #Stephen strange #teyla of hadeeth #stephen strange x ofc #ish loves you

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mostly-romance · 5 years

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OCtober Shipping 2019

(finally a blog that encourages OCs X canon characters!)

Day 13: Full Moon

from Of Magic, Miracles, and Moonlight

Fandom: Doctor Strange/Marvel Cinematic Universe

Characters: Doctor Stephen Strange, Teyla of Hadeeth (OFC)

Summary: A stroll through a fragrant garden beneath the moonlight---intended as a way of thanking a visitor from off world for a healing kindness she had done him--has Master of the Mystic Arts, Stephen Strange, realizing he feels much more than gratitude for the young woman. Soon enough, the moon just gets into his blood...

The air was clear as crystal, the night cool enough after an oppressive day of heat, so that they walked comfortably through the garden dusk, close enough to touch, and yet not touching--unless one’s arm might brush, by chance, against the other’s. Stephen wore jeans and an open-collared, sapphire blue silk shirt, which he had conjured up just for the occasion; he knew he looked good—even though he knew he needn’t give his appearance a second thought. Teyla had opted for simplicity as well, in a floral sundress and comfortable looking espadrilles. Stephen had needed to jumpstart their conversation several times, as Teyla was nervous at the beginning of their stroll, until he began to ask her about Hadeeth.

“…and mating rituals are somewhat different on my world,” she was explaining, “Far less for pleasure—than is the custom here—more straightforward, with their purpose clearly for procreation. My mother had observed this…anachronism…recalling a time in our history when our people had allowed such hungers for physical satisfaction to rule our heads.” Teyla lowered her eyes diffidently, “We were a people willing to disregard reason, common sense and—worst of all—compassion, in selfish pursuit of the carnal. Then came the great awakening, and we chose to direct those energies to more…altruistic…pursuits.” She looked back to him, a sheepish smile playing at the corners of her mouth, “Mother grew curious enough to dare what was discouraged on our world. There was a man whom she found pleasing—not only to her eye, but to her heart...”

“Your father,” he murmured, mesmerized by the soft cadence of her voice, and the little inflections that reminded him that English was not her native tongue.

Teyla nodded, “My father, yes. He was a good man, Stephen; and to his credit, he loved her dearly--as he did me.” She closed her eyes a moment, clearly calling him forth in her mind, softening visibly as she did so. “He sheltered me at a time of peril and uncertainty on Hadeeth. And he did his best to educate me in the ways of humanity, allowing me to at least pass for an ordinary--albeit awkward--teenager.”

“But you never quite fit in,” he surmised, from other little things she had said regarding her years on Earth.

Teyla shrugged, not needing to dwell on the past, “It did not matter; I managed well enough, and if I had few friends, they were true--and judged me not that I was different.” She laughed quietly, “Is that not the way for many adolescents of your world?”

Stephen chuckled in agreement, “I suppose it is.” Recalling his own teenage angst, he added, “But most of us outgrow that awkwardness with time and experience.” Then reckoning how very far his path had taken him, he told her, “And if we’re very lucky, we turn out to be the people destiny intended us to be.”

They had reached the far end of the garden, the moonlight casting a shimmer on the reflecting pool. Teyla took a seat upon a worn, marble bench, then inclined her head as invitation for him to join her. “A lovely night,” she mused, then laid her hand on top of his. The pale scarring she had taken on when she worked her spell upon his damaged hands had all but vanished. “Thank you for bringing me here, Stephen. Such simple beauty leaves an imprint on the heart; a quiet, welcome comfort to savor now, and to remember well in days when we have trials to face.”

“It’s been my pleasure, Teyla—and the very least I can do to show my gratitude.” He felt he should do more, far more, and yet he knew she expected nothing; her freely given gift had brought her pain, but such giving came as naturally to her as breathing. The only thing that she had asked was for him to use his own gifts well and wisely in the service of his world—something he had pledged to do long before they’d met. “Your mother mentioned you would face a test of sorts sometime in the future,” he pondered. “Has that time grown near?”

Teyla sighed heavily, reluctantly reminded of the tasks that lay ahead for her. “No talk or thought of that tonight, Stephen. Tonight I long for the tranquility of a quiet garden and the companionship of a kind man.” To her credit, she sounded light of heart.

“Then I will see you have exactly what you wish, my dear.” Moved by her tender regard for him, Stephen raised her hand and kissed her knuckles, and then looked out upon the water--wondering if in this setting Teyla might find that little act too forward…or perhaps wish that he might be moved to more.

Instead, she rested her head on his shoulder, humming contentedly. Some unknown nightbird called out from the grove of fruit trees on the far side of the still pool; its sweet song was soon taken up by another. In such a setting, Stephen found it easy to imagine they were mates, their pleasant trilling the joyful greetings exchanged as they came together after being parted for too long. That he was indulging in such uncharacteristically soft musings perplexed him, like a language long forgotten from disuse—until he considered the light of the moon, the garden’s perfume, and the gentle woman leaning against him.

“Your moon is quite enchanting, isn’t it,” she pondered, and he realized she was likely picking up on his emotions without even meaning to; second nature to her surely, but a marvel still to him. “But she pales in comparison to the moons of Hadeeth.”

“Moons?” he asked, giving her the encouragement to tell him more; he could not read feelings nearly as well as was her wont, but the trace of longing in Teyla’s voice spoke well enough that she was feeling at least a little homesick.

“Moons,” she repeated, raising her head to look at him directly, eyes wide with delight, “Anya, the eldest, wise and steadfast in her orbit, ruler of the tides. Enya, middle child, ever brightest of the three, mistress of all nocturnal creatures; she speeds apace or lags behind as her stubborn nature dictates.” Her voice had fallen into a storyteller’s captivating rhythm; Stephen could picture a circle of Hadeethan children at her feet, listening raptly as she shared with them the folklore of her people. “And Nonya, wayward youngest of the three, ever eager to appear before the sun has fully set, and last to leave the sky each dawn.” Teyla lowered her eyes shyly as she added, “Nonya is thought the patroness of lovers and their secret trysts.”

Stephen chuckled softly, charmed by both her tale, and the bashfulness that had overtaken her at the mention of lovers’ assignations. “That’s far more exotic and appealing than some of earth’s legends about the moon; there’s one ridiculous one that maintains the moon is made of cheese.”

“You can’t be serious,” she laughed, “Who would believe such an outlandish idea!” With narrowed eyes, Teyla studied his face, searching for any sign that he was teasing her, “Oh—but surely you jest?”

“I swear it’s true, Teyla—though I like the poetry of your moons far more than the foolishness of mine.”

That brought a pretty smile to her face, lighting her dark eyes with mirth. Stephen wondered if she even realized that she was flirting with him; he would swear it had been the furthest thing from his mind when he had invited her for an evening stroll through the National Botanical Gardens of Kathmandu. Recalling her love for green and growing things, he’d only thought it a good way to show some measure of his appreciation for the kindness she had done him—but Teyla’s innate softness, her gentle guilelessness, coupled with the freshly risen moonlight, had him feeling more than gratitude. Had him curious if she would shiver were he to brush his fingertips lightly upon her cheek; had him contemplating how her lips might taste should she eventually yield them to his. He had not been prepared in the least for this sudden longing she’d awoken in him, having lived the purely ascetic life since his initial arrival at Kamar-Taj.

Unaware of his train of thought, Teyla carried on, “I would show you our moons, Stephen Strange. Should you find time to visit Hadeeth, you might be witness to a marvelous natural wonder.”

“I should like that very much, Teyla of Hadeeth,” he admitted, his voice grown dusky as he speculated if she’d meant to make him feel these things.

She either read it upon his face, or discerned his feelings on the light breeze that stirred between them, for she gasped and looked down. Stephen flushed with concern that he’d made her uncomfortable—a fear briefly confirmed when she raised her face again, frowning slightly…until she stammered an apology, “Stephen, forgive me please. I should not have waxed on so witlessly of the ancient superstitions of my people.”

“Nonsense,” he sought to assure her, “It’s good to know our races are not so dissimilar after all; boys have sought kisses from girls in the moonlight, from well before recorded time on Earth as well.” He took her hand again, squeezing it gently for emphasis, and leaned in to tell her confidentially, “I haven’t always been a man this age, you know; as a boy I sought my fair share of moonlight kisses from pretty girls—as I’m sure you’ve received a good portion yourself, in your time here, if not on your home world. You needn’t be ashamed to speak of as pleasant a thing as that.”

Teyla opened her mouth to speak, then lowered her gaze again, quietly advising him, “I have not. I was never pretty enough to suit most boys of this world, nor was there ever opportunity on Hadeeth for me to engage in such…” She paused, as if searching for a word to justify her lack of experience, “…such…superfluous pursuits.”

In his astonishment, he could not help but ask, “Not even once?”

“By moonlight, no,” she answered, raising her chin proudly against feeling somehow inadequate, “But I’ll have you know I have kissed several boys, whilst I lived with my father and attended secondary school.” She shrugged, attempting to negate the value of the experience, “It seemed enough of a social convention that I had to, in order to be accepted among my peers.” She studied his face intently, perhaps curious as to his reaction to the next. “In truth, Stephen, such kisses never struck me as worth the fuss that the other girls made of them.”

“Perhaps because they were boys,” he suggested wryly, moving his face close enough to feel the warmth of her breath on his skin, “Perhaps you would be better served to try again--with a man, not a boy.”

“I…I know not,” she gasped, surprised he’d moved so close, but brave enough to ask, “What…what man might seek such a taste of me?”

“Oh, Teyla,” he said softly, cupping his hand along her cheek, “You pride yourself in how easily you can read others’ emotions—can’t you tell what I’m feeling right now?” Having come to the place--which he had been denying for some time was his truest destination--Stephen chose to face it fearlessly. As fearless in this, as he had seen the lovely woman beside him, face far less pleasant things. The voice of Wong tried to make him hit pause; it isn’t right, she is your student, it told him—but Stephen silenced it with the assertion that his bond with Teyla had surpassed that stricture some time ago.

She closed her eyes and nestled her cheek against his palm, then moistened her slightly parted lips, possibly aware--at last--of his intention. Her reply was soft as a longing sigh. “I…uh…sometimes my own emotions cloud my understanding of another’s. Perhaps you,” Teyla exhaled slowly, striving a moment more to master the magnetic pull between them, and then looked up at him with fearless clarity, “Perhaps you could help me understand.”

His mouth quirked into a half-smile as he brushed her hair behind her ear, leaving his hand to rest there. “Nothing would give me greater pleasure, my dear--though I’ve found that often actions speak more clearly than words,” he told her patiently, “I would very much like to kiss you now, Teyla—but only if you want me to.”

Stephen held his breath as she considered his request, reading her answer in her eyes before she spoke. “I…I would like that, Stephen. Very much, if…if you truly wish it so…” Teyla trailed off, while her eyes fluttered shut in anticipation. He closed the little space left between them, laying his lips feather-soft upon hers, lingering a moment before brushing his lower lip against hers, gently nudging her to respond. Her lips relaxed in reply, allowing him to deepen the kiss, until she whimpered against his mouth.

Withdrawing only a little, he rested his forehead against hers. “That was nice, now, wasn’t it,” he asked her quietly, “And surely better than those fledgling kisses in your past?”

She only nodded her head against his, firmly enough to tell him he was more than right--and then surprised him as she laid one hand along his neck, and the other on his face, sliding her fingertips into his hair. “It was…hmmm…it was…delightful,” she admitted, her doe-eyes warm and newly inviting “But somehow it seemed…incomplete.” Smiling shyly, she offered a suggestion, “Perhaps…perhaps there is more you would show me?”

“Gladly,” he rumbled, from a deep, satisfied place in his chest, tilting her face back and letting his mouth hover over hers, a delicious tease of what was to come. Now that they’d come to it, Stephen wanted to savor every moment; but even more, he wanted to show her the wonder he found her to be. Her untested lips were soft, modestly pink, and wholly willing to follow him; her trust in him palpable. It made for an intoxicating combination.

“My sweet Teyla,” his whispered, before laying his lips gently against hers again and bestowing several chaste kisses upon her—while he still had the presence of mind to go slowly—and gaging her response. With each kiss, her lips grew more relaxed, her fingers in his hair pressing harder. He now cupped her face with both hands, delighting in the smooth warmth of her skin, and the little puffs of breath she gave between the tease of his gentle kisses.

“Those Earth boys were idiots,” he murmured, kissing her cheeks as she sighed in reply, and then caressing along her cheekbones with his thumbs. Slowly, he worked his way back to her mouth, still pacing himself, wanting her to understand that he treasured her—and the amazing gift that she offered him now.

He paused long enough, his mouth a hairsbreadth from hers, so that she opened her eyes; deep, dark pools that invited him in, but also questioned what he was waiting upon. “For you to see me, Teyla,” he answered, and she smiled a little that he had indeed read her thought, “For you to see that I see that you are beyond simply pretty. You are lovely in a rare and wonderful way. More lovely than the most beautiful of women—for their beauty is only skin deep…” Stephen felt unfamiliarly moved, in the way of a poet or artist at the point of discovering the rarest inspiration. “…but your beauty, Teyla, is soul-deep and eternal…and I thank god that I’m blessed enough to see it.” He kissed her chastely one last time, and when she moaned his name, the need to possess her lips, her mouth, her very essence, obliterated his control at last.

And Teyla? She yielded to him without hesitation, melting beneath his open mouth, learning in full the secret of moonlight kisses, feeling cherished in his embrace while trusting completely in his intent---and happily, happily following his lead.

[excerpt is from chapter ten of the WIP Of Magic, Miracles, and Moonlight on AO3 ]

#OCtoberShip2019 #Doctor Strange #Stephen Strange #Teyla of Hadeeth #Healer and Empath #OFC #moonlight kisses #romance #my writing #Of Magic Miracles and Moonlight #OCtoberShipping2019

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sobeautifullyobsessed · 3 months

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Stephen Strange x OFC

Stephen encounters the woman he loves (detained on her home world) in a surprising dream...

Teyla smiled as she stepped into him, and though Stephen knew they met in a realm of dreams, of spirit, the sweet, familiar scent of her hair and skin filled each breath he drew, putting to shame the fragrance of the moon blossoms around them. He wanted to taste her scent on his tongue, wear it on his skin, embed it in his very cells. She lowered her lashes as she brushed her lips on his, laying both hands against his chest.

from Of Magic, Miracles, and Moonlight

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sobeautifullyobsessed · 1 year

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Of Magic, Miracles, and Moonlight

a Stephen Strange x OFC Romance

genre: pre-Infinity War, slow burn romance, older man/younger woman, teacher/student to friends to lovers characters: Stephen Strange, Wong, Teyla of Hadeeth (OFC), Moraine of Hadeeth (OC), additional OCs as Kamar-Taj staff rating: general audience to begin with, later chapters contain 18+ material

Ngl - I'm really hoping some of the authors in the Doctor Strange x Reader community will be kind enough to give this a read.🥺🥺 Even more so, a reblog - because I'm quite proud of my writing in this work, and I believe it deserves some love. Maybe some love could see me on my way to updating, even finishing, this WIP. It's lain fallow for far too long!

Chapter One

“Stephen, it’s nearly time.”

Wong’s voice pulled him from his scrutiny of the thick, weathered tome that had become his latest project. Since the passing of his mentor, the Ancient One, Stephen Strange was one of very few left in Kamar-Taj who made a regular practice of studying the advanced manuscripts, spell books, and obscure histories, which she had amassed during her centuries of service as the Sorcerer Supreme. His eidetic memory served him equally well in this pursuit, as it had in his previous vocation; as one of the world’s most talented and successful neurosurgeons he had learned the lesson early on—that knowledge was power—though the power he sought now he would wield for a even nobler purpose than those of his previous life.

“Remind me, Wong…it’s nearly time for…” Stephen let his voice trail off with the question, focusing just a few moments more on the script marking the page before him.

“For the arrival of the emissary from Hadeeth, Stephen,” Wong replied, “As well you know. Need I remind you that our alliance with Hadeeth goes back nearly four hundred years?”

“Not at all, Wong. I’m acutely aware—down to the smallest minutiae—of the terms of our accord the with the Hadeethans, having familiarized myself with every scrap of parchment the Ancient One left behind, detailing the particulars of our relationship.” Strange closed the leather-bound book before him, stretched a mite, and then rubbed thumb and forefinger upon his closed eyelids. “I’ve got a rotten case of eyestrain in the process, but I suppose I’m as ready for this as I can ever be,” he grumbled, “Although I’m not entirely certain why I have to be the one to meet with their envoy. A Master with years of experience—and not one with barely twelve months--would surely make a better representative of Earth. Let alone Kamar-Taj.”

Refusing to be pulled back into the ongoing debate, Wong remained impassive. “Of the Masters left in Kamar-Taj, you are the best qualified by virtue of your life experience. And in the absence of a Sorcerer Supreme, a Master of one of our Sanctums is the best that we can offer.”

He clapped Stephen on the shoulder, “Accept that you’re destined for this bit of diplomacy, Stephen. It can’t be anywhere near as complicated as navigating your way through the human brain to excise a pin point sized tumor.”

Strange rose to his feet, favoring Wong with a scowl, “As usual, Wong, your vote of confidence is underwhelming—but I will do my best not to provoke a diplomatic incident with an ally that has had Earth’s back for hundreds of years, and in some hairy situations.”

A young attendant placed the tray with fresh-brewed tea and a sampling of Nepalese delicacies on the low table before him. Without a word, she filled a cup with the hot liquid, and set it down beside the pot, before sliding a plate of almond honey cakes closer at hand to him. Stephen nodded, murmuring his thanks—though he was a little too nervous to partake of one of his favorite dishes. Instead, he stirred a bit of honey into his tea, briefly reflecting on the first cup of honeyed tea he had partaken in this very room, barely more than a year ago. With a shock to his system, he had been quickly educated as to how very much he did not know about the world, the universe, and the human mind and spirit; and since then, he had learned much more than he would ever had imagined of things he’d never even entertained as plausible. He considered himself a work in progress, truly humbled for the first time in his life, when he took into account how much he still did not know.

Yet, he had earned the respect of his peers here and—just moments before her death--the Ancient One had appointed him Master of the New York Sanctum. Strange took that responsibility ever seriously, having seen and experienced for himself the sort of assaults from other dimensions which Earth would be prey to were it not for the ancient protections provided by the band of sorcerers, bound in service to mankind.

The man he once was—before the accident that had deprived him of his livelihood, and the purpose by which he defined himself—Doctor Stephen Strange had the hubris to consider himself the best his specialty had ever known, and the ambition to pursue the loftiest positions of influence and power in his field. Now, as he split his time between New York and Nepal, he was in a constant quest for knowledge that would enable him to do this job to the best of his ability, while never seeking glory for himself. He would not—could not, in fact—allow himself to aspire to the title of Sorcerer Supreme…although more often than not these days, he was given--by some silent agreement (to which he was no party)--the deference and the responsibilities that came with that designation. Today, he would prefer to be a mere rank and file mage—but he could not turn his back upon the service that was asked of him.

Stephen rose when Wong appeared in the entrance way, ushering a stately, robed woman into the room. “Master Strange, allow me to present Mistress Moraine of Clan Kayolo, member of the Hadeethan Ruling Council,” Wong gave her a nod of respect, before moving to Stephen’s side.

Following the formal protocol which the Ancient One had chronicled, Strange bowed at the waist before speaking. “Welcome to Kamar-Taj, Mistress Moraine of Hadeeth. We are honored by your presence, and offer hospitality and friendship to you, and any others under your protection, for however long you sojourn here.”

She bowed in reply, and recited her opening remarks smoothly, her rich voice that of a woman accustomed to oratory, “The honor is mine, Sir. On behalf of my people, and in the name of our alliance, I accept your hospitality, Master Strange.” Moraine paused, studying him closely, before adding, “May the worlds we serve continue to benefit from our partnership.”

Strange motioned her to take a seat, then sat himself, while Wong moved forward to pour tea for the Hadeethan woman; the ensuing silence enough to allow Stephen an observation or two. She was definitely dignified (royalty was the first word that came to his mind), aloof and otherworldly; she wore her thick, silver hair loose and unadorned, for surely nothing could flatter her more than it’s natural glory; and the only subtle sign of age he could discern, were small crinkles at the corners of her pale grey eyes--but since he knew the average Hadeethan lifespan was upwards of 150 Earth years, they gave no clue regarding her actual age. There was a palpable feel of strength of will about her, as though her spine were made of steel. Moraine appeared—in short—to be a power to be reckoned with. He vowed to tread carefully regarding whatever topic she had arrived to discuss.

She sipped her tea, then nodded her approval, “Ah…it’s been far too long since I sampled this welcoming taste of Kamar-Taj. Though I regret I shall never raise my cup with the Ancient One again.”

“Her loss remains a heavy one for us to bear, Mistress Moraine,” he replied, a truth he felt most keenly every day, “And nothing would make me happier than for her to be here in my place.”

“I bear the condolences of my people for the dread passing of a wise leader and constant ally,” she told him, “And for myself, I share in your grief; for I had known the Sorcerer Supreme from my youth—as a teacher, then a mentor, and at the last, a friend.”

“I envy you that,” he admitted, “We all miss her guidance—but we have done our best to go forward as we believe she would see fit.”

Moraine narrowed her eyes, looking for the truth in his reaction, “And you do not seek to guide in her place? To bear the mantle she wore for centuries?”

Stephen shook his head vehemently, “I assure you, I am not that man. And honestly, I can’t think of anyone who could fill her shoes.”

She nodded, pleased with his reply, than raised her cup. “It is always so with the best of leaders. May we all do her proud in the service we provide to our worlds.”

“May we indeed,” he echoed, drinking from his cup as well.

Formalities now aside, Moraine was swift to reveal the surprising purpose of her visit. “I come on a personal matter, Master Strange. ‘Tis my hope you will entertain my request, if not for the sake of relations between our worlds, but for she whom we both miss.”

“I am certain we can accommodate you, Mistress Moraine. The resources of Kamar-Taj are at your service.”

“Even as I had anticipated,” she asserted, wearing a small relieved smile, “As you may know, Hadeeth has a good share of practitioners of the mystic arts. And in our culture, this is a thing well-known, even aspired to. In fact, by long standing tradition, the majority of those who sit on our ruling council are skilled in magic.”

Strange nodded, having gleaned those facts from the Ancient One’s notes, “Magic being the primary reason our worlds are well-suited as allies.”

Moraine bobbed her head in a brief acknowledgement, then continued, “On Hadeeth, we have found that the aptitude for magic, and the strength to wield it properly, are most prevalent in certain bloodlines. As a result, it is not uncommon for a particular clan to hold a council seat for several generations.”

“I take it that is your own experience,” he inferred.

“It is, Master Strange. But seats are not granted automatically—and those aspiring to them must pass a series of tests, unique to the individual.”

“And these tests involve the use of magic?”

“Exactly so—and thus arises my need for your assistance,” she admitted.

A bit perplexed, he might’ve asked, but Moraine had anticipated his question. “Not for myself, Master Strange—for my daughter, Teyla.” And then surprising him, she added, “A daughter of both our worlds.”

Not having known such a mingling of their races was even possible, it took a moment for him to respond, “You’re asking that we train her here, in Kamar-Taj?”

Moraine’s face took on a pleasant sort of softness, clear sign of the depth of her feelings for her child. “She has ever been my greatest treasure, and from the moment in which I discerned that she possessed aptitude for the mystical arts, I had planned to entrust my own best teacher with her tutelage.” She lowered her eyes, her voice become sorrow-tinged, “Who could have anticipated that such a plan would go unrealized?”

Stephen remained speechless, moved by her quiet show of grief. In the months since the Ancient One fell, he had learned things about her he had never expected—always making him long for the fruits of the wisdom she might have shared with him.

Having set aside her sorrow, Moraine looked to him again, firm of purpose, “Teyla’s skill--her strength—lies in the healing of body, mind, and heart. And though this ability is a miracle in itself, it does not suit well the sort of trials she is likely to face in the fullness of time.”

The doctor in him wanted to ask more of Hadeethan healing magic, but the situation would not allow for it—though he made a promise to himself to learn more of their practices when possible, with an eye towards the exchange of knowledge that might enable him to fulfill again that purpose of more than half his lifetime. “What training would best prepare your daughter for these future trials?”

Moraine looked please at his show of willingness, “She will need to develop defensive skills, for both her own safety, and for those who may someday fall under her protection.” She paused, gauging his reaction, and then concluded, “Teyla also possesses a small degree of prescience, although she is not yet capable of employing it at will. She dreams, yet cannot tell when the images may come to pass; she has strong, yet unpredictable, flashes of intuition, which she finds difficult to interpret. This gift is useless to her until she can cultivate the proper wisdom and discipline.”

“There are no teachers on Hadeeth that might guide her?” he asked, “Seers are rare, even in Kamar-Taj. I can’t guarantee our knowledge is enough to guide her beyond the most rudimentary training.”

“They are rarer still, on Hadeeth,” Moraine shrugged, “So rare they come but a handful of times in each generation. Though I am her mother, I haven’t even a touch of that gift.”

Stephen nodded, considering her request a moment. “We will do our best, Mistress Moraine—but in this case, I can make no promise.”

“I understand, Master Strange. And with this understanding, I will entrust you with Teyla’s further education. For the sake of our alliance,” she reminded him, “And for all the hopes a parent has for their child’s safety and happiness.”

They had concluded their meeting by settling upon three Earth days as the interval until Teyla would arrive at Kamar-Taj. “Of course, we’ll need to see what magic your daughter is already capable of, before we proceed with any training plan,” he cautioned her, as he and Wong escorted her back to the courtyard for her departure. “Please be sure she understands what lies ahead.”

“Oh, she is already more than prepared for that,” Moraine told him gratefully, “And she has spent a share of time on Earth--living with her father for several years--so you should find she will easily acclimate to your world.” With that, she drew on her sling ring—the magical tool which the Ancient One had shared with the Hadeethans, in consideration of their partnership—and conjured a portal back to her home world. Stephen could discern very little of what lay on the other side; a room half lit with what could be daylight, vague shapes that were likely Hadeethan furniture.

Moraine turned his way, and bowed low, and then rose to meet his eye. “Please keep in mind, Master Strange, that some of the tests Teyla may come to face are dangerous. I beg you to see she is properly prepared to survive, beyond the training I have already given her. I will be in your debt, and Earth’s, for the remainder of my days—and look forward to the day when I can be of service to your world, in return.” She stepped into the portal, and raised her hand in farewell, closing the circle before he could utter a word in reply.

“Well, this should prove interesting,” Wong observed, “How much experience do you have dealing with teenagers?”

“Barely to none,” Stephen confessed, “And I hadn’t counted on being asked to play a schoolmaster to a rookie sorcerer.”

Wong chuckled, amused at Strange’s befuddlement, “I’m thinking diplomacy will turn out to be child’s play, compared to the task you have ahead of you.”

“Yes,” Steven agreed grimly, heading back to the library to continue his studies of earlier. “And I’d much rather be navigating my way through the human brain, then babysit an angsty adolescent.”

Feedback/Reblogs are incredibly meaningful. Please support content creators by doing us the honor. Thank you!

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sobeautifullyobsessed · 1 year

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Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Let’s spread the self-love ❤

Thank you so much for the tag, my friend--you know I appreciate every chance I can get to promo my work!

So, five favorites? Honestly, it's hard to choose, as most of my work remains WIPs that are currently languishing for updates. I'm going to exclude my one-shots to narrow down the field - and base this list on both the story and the quality of the writing. Hoping that they might get a little bit of love and some new readers!

Of Magic, Miracles, and Moonlight - Stephen Strange x OFC. Slow burn romance, older man/younger woman, mentor/student, friends-to-lovers. Pre-Infinity War. Contains Mature Content. WIP, currently 19 chapters.

A Khan By Any Other Name - Khan Noonien Singh x OFC. Adventure, danger, angst, romance. Pre-Star Trek Into Darkness. Contains Mature Content. WIP, currently 12 chapters.

The Secret of Salvation - Major Jamie Stewart x OFC. War Horse AU. WW I. Angst, prisoner of war, romance. Contains Mature Content. WIP, currently 5 chapters.

The One That Got Away - Benedict Cumberbatch AU, where he is primarily a stage Actor with some movie/television appearances. Benedict Cumberbatch x OFC. Takes place during a production of The Taming of the Shrew. Castmates to friends to falling in love, slow burn, jealousy, lots of angst. WIP, currently 18 chapters.

Scarlett and the Professor - Tumblr exclusive. An original, erotic, paranormal romance, based on a discontinued roleplay. All original characters. Takes place on an unnamed Caribbean island. Older man/younger woman, professor/student, supernatural elements bringing them together, romance, angst, forbidden desires, light kinks with foreshadowing of darker kinks. Contains Mature Content. WIP, currently 32 chapters, plus two one-shots.

moodboards under cut

(related works: Lady in Red, Though There Be Pain Love Still Endures)

Of Magic, Miracles, and Moonlight

Doctor Stephen Strange's life has settled into a fulfilling pattern; even as Master of the New York Sanctum, he continues his studies in the mystic arts, self-training with the library that the Ancient One amassed in her years as Sorcerer Supreme. An old alliance forged by the Ancient One brings an unexpected request to him, and he is duty bound to fulfill it. Along the way he meets with some pleasant surprises--and discovers that his heart is not immune to the effects of the gentlest sorts of magic.

moodboard by @strangelock221b

Seraphina DiPietro is wise in the ways of the world; she has to be, as she travels the California coast as a torch singer in pubs, bars and nightclubs. She knows how to take care of herself and stay out of trouble--most of the time. When trouble comes, it's usually because her kind heart overrides her common sense. Stopping to check on a handsome stranger, stranded roadside in the Mojave Desert, her curiosity is piqued as much by the classic, mint-looking Mustang, as by the driver--a tall, dark mysterious drink of water, whom she quickly learns is so much more than what he appears.

moodboard by @mel-loves-all

Major Jamie Stewart is a survivor--but sometimes he just needs to escape. The guilt, the pain, the despair; his bitter fall due to folly and hubris. It helps to survive if one has a sanctuary to turn to, a dream to hold onto. A vision of a day--and a woman--that might grant him the salvation he desperately craves.

bookcover for The One That Got Away created by @onebuttscratcher

An actress making her name for herself on the London stage, Virgilia (Vicki) Gordon vows not to follow her usual pattern: falling in love with her leading man. The work comes first and foremost--or so she plans. She never expects to develop feelings for her co-star in "The Taming of the Shrew", but with his stellar talent matched by his charm, kindness and intellect, Vicki learns all too soon that, despite one's best intentions, the heart goes where it will. Still, all might be well--but he is far from free enough to return her affections.

moodboard by @strangelock221b

Romance & Passion. Mystery & ties to the Supernatural. Lust & Erotica. NSFW material, so be forewarned. A young Scottish woman of ancient Selkie blood finds herself irresistibly drawn to her dashing British professor, with his own mysterious ties to the Sea. A serial womanizer who believes his inner darkness makes him unredeemable, he finds what seems an uncorruptable innocence in the love she freely offers--eventually coming to wonder if her light might be enough to save him from his demons.

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sobeautifullyobsessed · 1 year

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Of Magic, Miracles, and Moonlight

a Stephen Strange x OFC Romance

Chapter Seven (ANGST, wherein Stephen experiences a guilt induced nightmare)

Stephen had suggested that they return to the Sanctum, hoping to allow Teyla a chance to process all that had happened, and to begin to grieve. She had declined, her eyes brimming with determination and an eagerness to share with him, her happiest memories of her father. He watched her move about the flat, while telling him a series of stories in a sort of stream of consciousness--leading him to realize that this was how she chose to mourn. Eventually, she came to sit beside him on the sofa, her focus on showing him the contents of several photo albums encompassing the time she’d spent living with her dad.

In the quiet moments in between, Stephen sensed how desperately she was trying to fend off her heartbreak. He hurt for her, but remained patient for the moment she might trust him enough to ask for what she needed.

As dusk colored the sky outside, Teyla located those pieces of her father’s work which he had saved for her, covered loosely in several layers of muslin cloth, waiting for her hand to reveal. Worn and weary as she was, she found the fortitude to hang on just a while longer—though with each piece she unveiled, Stephen noted her tears remained barely in check

First there was a thick sketchbook that Charles had kept during the years that Teyla lived with him. Much of its content was concerned with Teyla herself; studies of her at the breakfast table or amidst a pile of schoolbooks; sketches of her laughing, or at play; even a few which caught her sleeping--all of them created with a father’s loving eye. Stephen enjoyed seeing this younger version of Teyla, imagining the daily joy she had brought to her father’s life.

There was a softly romantic portrait of Moraine in the nude, which Teyla explained had been painted early in their courtship; that the Artist was head over heels for his model was evident in every brushstroke. A second painting depicted Moraine in the fertile bloom of pregnancy; set against the night sky, framed against an open window of a smaller apartment of decades ago, she was clothed in a translucent ivory nightgown, her hands resting protectively upon her protruding belly. Stephen found it nothing short of breathtaking; a magnificently rendered image of womanhood in its unassailable glory, and beautiful with understated sensuality.

“You like this one,” Teyla observed quietly, but clearly proud of her father’s handiwork.

Stephen let out a low whistle, “This piece is amazing, Teyla. Your dad was a talented artist.”

Her voice caught a moment, but she readily agreed.

Two sculptures sat draped in linen slip cloths, lined with tyvek for extra protection from moisture; Teyla uncovered them reverently to reveal a bust of her mother—looking like some Grecian goddess—while the other captured Moraine with a wee Teyla. Though made of marble, the piece was alive with their family bond, as mother bent low, cupping her daughter’s hands in her own, allowing both to study a small winged creature (Stephen’s mind insisted it was some sort of Hadeethan butterfly) which rested upon Teyla’s open palm. “Fantastic,” he murmured.

“That he was,” she agreed, with a plaintive finality that voiced her sorrow. A large, rectangular shape rested beneath the remaining storage cloth. Teyla gasped as she slid the cloth away. “I have…I have never seen this one…” She bowed her head to hide the tears she could no longer hold at bay.

Stephen draped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. She shivered against him. “He must have done this after I left Earth. I wish…” Teyla sobbed, “I wish that I had known.”

This painting was unquestionably the finest of the works that Charles had set aside for his daughter. A crowning achievement. Teyla gazed wide-eyed at them from the canvas, her truth beautifully captured; the small curve of her smile, the soft fall of her hair, the unassuming kindness that lived in the depths of her doe-eyes. She rested her chin against her palm, her hand angled so that the rich purple stone of her mood ring was visible. She looked happy—and as though she knew the secret to happiness and would share it freely if only the viewer could awaken her image to speak aloud. Walter Charles had painted the quiet miracle that had brought him fulfillment as no other soul in the world ever had, in a language that articulated his heart as no written or spoken word ever could.

Surely Teyla understood the image for all it had meant to her father. She breathed hard several times, then made a desperate, strangled sound, before nestling her face in the crook of Stephen’s neck.

The bitter taste of remorse filled his mouth, and Stephen’s hands flared with fresh spikes of pain, as he considered the talented hands that had created this striking portrait of a beloved daughter. An artist’s hands that might have been given more time to share his talents with the world, if only a ‘hot-shot genius doctor’ had actually cared about the patients that had sought his help. The painting seemed infused with the soft light of her gentle spirit, imbued with all the love her father held for her. An exceptional creation—and I failed the man without a second look back.

“I’m so sorry, Teyla,” he whispered, “So, so sorry. I’d give anything to make this right…”

She was shaking her head against his words, “Please, Doctor, please just take me from this place. I cannot bear this pain inside my heart. I feel my father as though he is near, yet I will never hear his voice or feel the comfort of his embrace again.”

“Of course,” he assured her, “Whatever you need, honey.” He released her as gently as he could, to conjure a portal back to the sanctuary of Bleecker Street.

Understandably, Teyla had no appetite, but at Stephen’s stern insistence, she ate a little yogurt, and a few slices of mango, before retiring to the small room he directed her to for the night. Though her body’s clock was still set to Kathmandu time—where it was early afternoon--he had a hunch he could coax her into some healing sleep. Failing that, he would employ a small sandman spell, though that turned out to be unnecessary.

Feeling both the weight of his responsibility as her mentor, and the gnawing guilt that he might’ve made a difference in the quality and length of her father’s final days, Stephen sat at Teyla’s bedside, watching over her a while. Watching as her breathing evened out and the lines of her body softened, knowing she had found the sort of solace—for a time—that he’d been unable to give her. When satisfied she rested easy, he headed to his own room, planning to immerse himself in study, certain the peace of sleep would elude him—which was precisely as he deserved.

It was that same old dream again, but with a wicked twist. He dreamed it far less frequently these days, and if he took the time to analyze just why, Stephen would realize it was because he had finally shed much of the guilt which he had carried for more than half a lifetime. Accepting that he bore full responsibility for his horrific accident, facing his demons in the aftermath, and recognizing that his medical career had never been of one of true service to others, had been a struggle that rivaled the constant physical challenges presented by his ruined hands. Only the enlightenment that had come to him with his studies in the mystic arts had enabled him to accept the truth about himself, humbling him and inspiring him to be a better man than ever in his life.

His dream-self stood—as he always did--on the shore of one of the smaller Fremont Lakes, drinking a can of Coors, laughing with his friends, and flirting with the prettiest of his sister’s high school classmates. He was only weeks away from beginning freshman year, and Stephen had been thinking that a little fling with Chloe Butler might be the perfect way to end the summer before heading off to study medicine at Creighton University. His sister Donna had swum out toward the the center of the lake, headed for the swim platform to bask in the afternoon sun—swimming as effortlessly as she’d done at least a hundred times before, and he frankly wasn’t paying much attention. He should have been; if he had been, he might have reached her minutes sooner, reached her in time to keep her from going under that last time.

In reality, he’d only heard her call his name once, but in the dreams, her frightened voice always carried across the water to him, repeatedly calling for help, calling his name, begging him to save her. When he realized she was in trouble, he’d shucked off his scuffed leather boat shoes, the first of the young men on the narrow strip of beach to dive in, swimming frantically in her direction. He was never to know for certain what had put her in distress; without a full autopsy (their mother couldn’t bear the thought of one), the best explanation they’d been given was a seizure of sorts, or something as innocuous as an ill-timed cramp. And though his lungs burned with his effort to reach her, Stephen was still a dozen yards away when Donna sank below the surface with heartbreaking finality.

In his dream, he relived again his frantic search for her in the dark depths of the lake, finally finding her, bringing her to shore, and breaking down after he was unable to resuscitate her. But this time, instead of waking sweat-soaked and heart hammering the insistent beat of his failure and his guilt, the nightmare continued. Though she was long dead and buried, Donna was there, in the flower of eternal youth, riding passenger with him in his Lamborghini Huracan. You failed me, Stephen, she intoned, her eyes flashing with bitter accusation; you were my older brother and you were supposed to look out for me, but you failed miserably; and as the rain began to pound the windshield, she questioned him without remorse: how many others did you fail in your egotistical short sightedness?

Stephen faced her, helpless to change the past, knowing his own fate was already sealed; in moments would come the crash and his car would hurtle off the road, breaking his hands beyond repair, robbing him of the life he’d worked so single-mindedly to establish for himself. You failed me, Stephen, she repeated, as you always fail the ones in greatest need…and just before the collision, Donna’s face transformed, and she was Teyla, but not angry--only sad, her indictments delivered quietly, regretfully, with a tenderness that matched her spirit in the waking world. You failed him, Stephen Strange; a better man might have saved my father. Somehow her words stung even more, for the gentle way in which she delivered them. You were ever selfish, and blind to the needs of others, so perhaps there is some justice in your fate, after all. And then she was gone, as his car spun and spun, and the pain was excruciating, and he knew in that moment that he deserved the pain, he deserved to have his old life ripped away…and if he spent a hundred years expunging his guilt through selfless service, he could never erase the misery, the loss, the deaths, of those he’d failed. His dear, doomed sister. Walter Charles, and those patients, who, like him, were not challenge enough to merit his valuable time and attention. And now, his gentle Teyla…

“Stephen”. Softly, yet urgently, spoken. “Stephen, you must awaken.” A concerned, familiar voice, summoning him away from his pain and self-recrimination. Pulling him from the depths of his dream. A hand—her hand--upon his shoulder, soft but insistent, lightly shaking him back to consciousness.

“Teyla,” he murmured, still caught in the nightmare. He needed to tell her. Wanted to, but that would only bring her pain. “Teyla…”

“Yes, I am here,” she answered, “I am here, Stephen. Open your eyes. See me beside you and know that all is well.”

His eyes fluttered open, unable to focus at first, and his heart was pounding, just as it always did in the wake of that nightmare. Her hand on his cheek was soft and cool, her face hovering above his quietly merciful, the ends of her hair just brushing his skin. Teyla of Hadeeth. How was she here, sympathetic as she tried to soothe him, the embodiment of clemency when he deserved only her scorn? “Teyla?” he whispered, wondering if she was just the remains of his dream, and would vanish like mist if he dared to trust she was real.

“Yes, Stephen,” she answered patiently, “Leave those painful memories behind. You must not torment yourself so.” Despite the grief he knew dwelled in her heart, her focus seemed to be solely on comforting him.

“I was dreaming,” he rasped, feeling he ought to explain, and hoping he didn’t appear as weak as he felt.

“I know,” she told him, the calm of her voice and in her touch beginning to banish the anguish that had enveloped him. “I dreamt as well, Stephen. I saw enough to know, and I felt your distress, and now I am here because you are more than worthy of mercy—but such mercy must begin with yourself.” She laid a hand over his heart, and an unexpected warmth spread through his chest.

Amazed at her perception, Stephen searched her eyes, reading her sincerity, unbelieving that redemption could be so easily gained. He shook his head to clear away the vestiges of his nightmare, sitting up against the headboard. He laid his hand atop hers, swearing he could feel the beautiful life force that inhabited her slender form. “Teyla,” he confessed, “If you knew the truth, you might not be so generous…”

Her eyes told him before she spoke, that she was well aware of the part he’d played in her father’s story. “I already know all that I need to know, Stephen.” His given name upon her lips, spoken without a hint of her usual formality, was a balm against his shame. “You have paid a heavy penance for your past mistakes; you need punish yourself no longer.”

Stephen breathed deeply and closed his eyes, feeling entirely unworthy of the absolution she was offering. “Do you understand, Teyla? Your own father…”

She cupped a hand against his cheek, silencing him with a wise, sweet smile. “I assure you, Stephen—I understand it all…and I promise you that you are not the man you were in those days.” He opened his eyes, finding only compassion in her own. “You have become your best self, through trial and pain. I swear that you are now the man you were destined to become…but you must forgive yourself--for that will finally free you from this burden of guilt that weighs upon you so.”

Though awestruck by her heart’s true generosity, Stephen suddenly felt tired enough to sleep for a week. “Yes,” she smiled, relieved on his behalf, “You must rest a while now, and come the day this darkness will fade to naught.” Come morning he would wonder too, if she’d worked some gentle magic by simple touch alone.

At her prompting, Stephen slid back down onto his pillow, allowing her to tuck the blanket around him. He caught her hand in his before she stood up to leave; she didn’t seem surprised. “You are most welcome, Stephen Strange,” she told him, then headed to his door.

“Just tell me this,” he said, a ghost of his usual cheekiness restored, so that she turned back to him from the doorway, “How are you so young, and yet so wise, Teyla of Hadeeth?”

She raised a brow—quite insouciantly—and he saw in her a bit of Moraine’s regal bearing, as she proudly replied, “I am both my mother’s daughter, and my father’s child as well. I dare to believe that the best of both of them have found their union in me.” Teyla gave a little shrug, and left the room—though the surprising smile she left upon Stephen’s face lasted long enough to see him into a more peaceful sleep of his own.

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sobeautifullyobsessed · 1 year

Text

Of Magic, Miracles, and Moonlight

a Stephen Strange x OFC Romance

Ch.One | Ch.Two | Ch.Three

Chapter Four

Despite relaxation exercises meant to clear his mind and free his body from worldly stresses, sleep eluded Stephen for hours, in the wake of Teyla’s startling disclosure. A good part of his unease was due to the growing realization that he had over reacted to her confession—and that he owed her an apology come daylight.

Initially, he’d been dumbfounded to discover that Teyla--stranger that she was--had been aware of his devastating loss, before they’d even met. For nearly a decade before they had met. His shock had quickly turned to anger at the idea of a total stranger quietly carrying that vital, unspoken knowledge around, well before his accident had occurred--as though somehow she might have crossed his path and given him fair warning in the interim, thus enabling him to avoid such a cruel outcome.

Stephen hadn’t snapped at her, but had grown cold and terse with Teyla, restraining himself from angrily lashing out. Considering it in the hours since, it occurred to him that she must have been well aware—powerful empath that she was--of his ire; both for her knowing, and for the notion that his fate had been somehow predetermined. Her eyes had filled with sorrow, for surely she had sensed his unspoken hostility—and the portion of blame that he had thoughtlessly, albeit silently, laid at her feet. His mind had even fleetingly considered the idea that somehow her dreaming had conjured his unfortunate fate—the most foolish of notions. If she had read that from him—and in light of the childhood memory she had just shared with him—he realized that had to have stung Teyla doubly worse. As he had turned to leave the library, she had bowed her head to hide the tears his reaction had evoked.

The man he’d been before Kamar-Taj would likely not have noticed that he had hurt the young woman—or if he’d taken note, he would have dismissed it as unimportant, and certainly not worth his valuable time to even contemplate offering an apology. Single-minded and driven he had been, selfish even, as he pursued knowledge and honed his skills, rising to the top of his profession; arrogant too, as he achieved unparalleled expertise, shedding common niceties without compunction when they proved a distraction from his goals. His mind having been awakened by his studies and extraordinary experiences in the mystic arts eventually enlightened his soul to his past callous, egoistic behaviors, leaving him appropriately humbled—and desirous of being a better man in all matters.

Teyla had clearly deserved better of him, and he knew that he must make amends. Having resolved to seek her out first thing in the morning, Stephen finally found peace of mind enough to sleep.

He headed for the dining hall as soon as he was dressed, hoping to catch Teyla over breakfast for a quiet conversation.

She was nowhere in sight when he arrived, so Stephen grabbed some ohkar and banana pancakes layered with blueberry curd, along with a black coffee, and took a seat, thinking perhaps she might still come by. He waited about twenty minutes before deciding to check the main courtyard, thinking he might find her there, or at least passing through on the way to her morning training exercises.

He saw her amidst a group of their youngest novices, who stood watching in delighted awe as she worked a magic unfamiliar to him. Teyla waved her hands in the air above the circle of children, weaving them gracefully in a pattern made easy to discern by the glowing trails of vivid blue that followed in their wake. With each completed pass, Stephen observed a cascade of colors appear midair; as he moved closer, he could tell that they were flower petals--and could hear the children’s exclamations of pleasure as they giggled and twirled beneath the fairy shower, while holding their hands out to catch what they could. Those petals left uncaught landed with a little pop upon the children’s hair and happy, upturned faces, to evaporate in a spark of vibrant color. Grinning at the happy, unexpected sight, Stephen came to the edge of the circle, noting that as Teyla wove her spell, she was humming a cheery series of notes, which fit perfectly with the scene before him.

“Good morning, children,” he chuckled, so that one by one the little faces turned his way.

“Good morning, Master Strange,” they intoned back, some in English, some in Nepali, and all not quite in unison, so that he could hear the individual piping of even the youngest child.

“Good morning, Miss Teyla,” he grinned, “What magic is this--and might you teach me to charm rose petals from thin air?”

Surprised by his greeting, Teyla bobbed her head, too shy it seemed—or perhaps unwilling, he surmised--to meet his eyes. “It is just a small magic, Doctor Strange,” she told him meekly, “Meant only to entertain these young ones."

“Well, it’s a lovely bit of magic all the same,” he assured her, hoping to soften her reticence towards him and set her at ease. “Don’t you think so children?”

Again they answered, nearly as one, in an excited chorus of ‘yeses’, with several of them appearing ready to begin such a lesson at once.

Stephen could tell that she was quietly pleased with their reaction, a little smile ticking up the corners of her mouth, though her tone and manner remained deferential, “Thank you, Doctor. You are most kind to say so.”

He crouched down to address the young novices directly, “I need to speak with Miss Teyla privately now, so I’m going to steal her away a bit. You wouldn’t mind that, would you?” Some regarded him quite solemnly, nodding their understanding before dispersing, with a few lingering to thank her before she bid them on their way.

Stephen rose and approached her gently, sensing that she was still a bit skittish in his presence. “I meant that sincerely, Teyla. That was a sweet little spell you worked for them. Perhaps sometime you could show me how it’s done?”

“Oh…well…it is only the simplest of magics, Doctor,” she reiterated, “One of the first taught to Hadeethan children who are found to be apt. But I…I would never presume to have anything to teach a Master.”

“None of us are ever too skilled, or even too old, to learn something new. Knowledge is a gift, Teyla,” he told her sagely, “And so long as it brings no harm to others, a gift we should never turn away.”

“You are right, of course”, she admitted, brave enough from his encouragement to finally meet his eyes, “And I would be glad for the opportunity to share what I might, of our magic, with you.” Her dark, doe-eyes watched him expectantly as he drew nearer, but flitted downward as he stood before her. Clearly, his reaction of the evening before had left its sting—giving Stephen even stronger motivation to cure what he had soured.

“Please look at me, Teyla.” Patiently he waited while she raised her face to his. “I owe you an apology about last night…”

“Oh no, Doctor Strange—the error was entirely mine,” she insisted, shaking her head emphatically, “I should not have spoken so candidly, of such a private matter.” Sincerely contrite, she blushed in embarrassment, “It is I who must tender my regrets.”

Stephen laid a hand upon her shoulder, “You did nothing wrong, Teyla.” Unconvinced, she shook her head slightly, compelling him to greater urgency. “Believe me, please—and please forgive me for my foolishness. I treated you rudely. You didn’t deserve that at all—and I am truly sorry.”

Genuinely surprised, she answered graciously, “That is not necessary, Doctor. You could not have been prepared for such a confession—your reaction was more than reasonable. And I was the foolish one, to take it so to heart.”

He took her by both shoulders, moved by her honest desire to assume responsibility--and by how easily she had already absolved him. “I haven’t known you long—and I haven’t your gift for reading people’s emotions—but I can see your heart is kind, and honestly in the right place.” She made no reply, quietly modest in the face of his declaration, “There’s a special magic in that, and one that cannot be taught. Trust your instincts, Teyla of Hadeeth. They will rarely steer you wrong.”

She gazed at him quite frankly, searching for the truth in his eyes, leaving him to feel that his own heart was being scrutinized. Satisfied his compliment was honestly paid, she told him, “I am honored that you say so, Sir—and will count you advice as valuable as any lesson I will gain in Kamar-Taj.”

The matter seeming to be settled, neither spoke—but Stephen felt he should not let her leave without touching on a lighter topic. “Soooo,” he started, keen to prove that he was well past any resentment—and that she could feel comfortable in discussing the subject going forward, “Did you dream at all last night?”

She arched a brow, smirking softly at his effort to cement the peace between them, “I did, but they were just ordinary dreams. Nothing of import.”

“Nothing for your journal then?” Teyla shook her head, so that he followed up, “Can you be sure of that?”

“Oh yes, Doctor. Absolutely sure—for I dreamt of my father, as I usually do when he is much on my mind.” She grew wistful in the remembering, “It has been several years since I saw him last—and returning to Earth now, my heart feels impatient to see him again.”

Further testament of a tender heart, Stephen thought, recalling Master Salma’s observation that Teyla would need to be taught how to safeguard her mind and heart from any negative side effects that her powerful empathy could trigger. He wondered, too, if her earnest, gentle nature was actually suited for the plans her mother had for her—a testing of sorts, which Moraine had intimated could entail some unknown danger. Already he felt rather protective of his Hadeethan charge, realizing a time might come when he would have to play the advocate for Teyla’s best interests.

Without a second thought, he found himself extending a surprising proposal, “How about we see how your training progresses over the next few weeks? If all goes well, maybe we can arrange for you to visit him.”

Teyla nearly jumped up and down with delight, her soft, brown eyes shining brightly. “Truly, Doctor Strange? I had not dared to hope for such a chance. I will do everything the Masters ask of me, without fail,” she vowed, “I swear I shall prove worthy of your offer!”

Amused by her unabashed enthusiasm, Stephen grinned and nodded, “I believe you’ll do exactly that, Teyla.”

The smile she flashed him held a joy that seemed contagious—until she looked away, suddenly self-conscious. “If I am to fulfill your terms, than I must be on my way to morning training, good Doctor. Thank you for the hope you have promised me. It will lighten whatever tasks lay ahead.” She bowed her head respectfully, then moved along her way.

Strange watched Teyla as she went, pondering the streak of playfulness he had witnessed as she worked that pretty magic, appreciative of how it complimented her confidence of purpose and her seriousness about the work she hoped to do. She was turning out to be a much more intriguing challenge than he had assumed he would face, when Moraine had charged him with furthering her education.

As if she had read his thoughts, Teyla turned back at the edge of the courtyard, looking perplexed. Stephen shrugged, feeling as though he’d been caught red-handed at the cookie jar, and witnessed her bewilderment melt into a sunny smile. Had she actually heard those thoughts, or did she just pick up on his feelings? Either way, she had an uncanny knack for reading him, as though he was a favorite book that she had already nearly memorized. She raised a hand to wave farewell, and sallied off to class, leaving him pleasantly unsettled—and resolving to keep his growing fascination with his newest, favorite student buried, deeper down than she might inadvertently detect it.

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sobeautifullyobsessed · 1 year

Text

Of Magic, Miracles, and Moonlight

a Stephen Strange x OFC Romance

Ch.One | Ch.Two

Chapter Three

Normally, Masters conducted training in a variety of disciplines, in the main courtyard, or in the smaller open air spaces of the Kamar-Taj complex, regardless of the weather--for sorcerers-in-training required preparation enough to utilize their skills in unpredictable or adverse conditions. Even during monsoon season, this policy was seldom suspended, with the occasional rare exception; and by long-standing tradition, outdoor sessions were canceled only at the discretion of The Ancient One. Since her loss, such a situation had not yet arisen—so it was inevitable that such should fall in a week where Stephen was in residence there, far from his place as Master of the New York Sanctum.

From June through early September, Kathmandu saw rain daily, with intermittent evening thunderstorms. Steven Strange felt every day of that rain as a heightened ache in nearly every joint of his hands. He hadn’t needed to check Doppler radar online to know that a doozey of a storm was headed their way; he’d felt the drop in barometric pressure several hours in advance, and the damp in the air announced itself spectacularly in a persistent, bone-deep throb that did it’s best to distract him from every task he set himself to. Adding insult to injury, his tremors had intensified to the point of equaling those of the beginning months of his recovery. Meditation helped to some extent, but the discomfort remained a constant, like white noise in the background as he moved throughout his day. He kept to himself most of the day, focusing in the later hours on preparing himself to meet with Teyla for their first “lesson”, scheduled after the evening meal.

The winds lashed the rain against his back, while he crossed a courtyard lit by the flash of lightning, the peal of thunder distant enough to inform him that the worst of the storm had finally passed overhead.

She was waiting for him in the library, as they’d arranged, engrossed in a text he recognized from his own early studies, and scribbling notes in a hand that would rival the worst of any doctors’ that he’d known.

Stephen cleared his throat to announce his arrival, but Teyla’s eyes remained cast upon the book in front of her. “Come here often?” he quipped, vying for her attention, swiftly realizing she probably wouldn’t get the humor of that old, banal pick-up line. He set his rucksack on the table, then took the seat opposite her.

She looked up with a start, then smiled sheepishly, “I’m sorry, Doctor Strange—I got a little lost doing the translation here.” She slid the book across the table to him. “It’s the third passage down. I can’t tell if it’s require or recommend.”

He read the passage through, recalling the difficulties for Novices, of translating Sanskrit on sight—made doubly hard, he reckoned, as she might need to translate it first to English, and then into Hadeethan. “It’s ‘pay no heed to’,” he told her, pointing to several words proceeding it, “You need to look at it in context to get the true meaning.” He slid the book back to her.

“Oh—of course! Now it makes sense.” She crossed the incorrect word off her notes, than laid her pencil down, “Thank you, Doctor. I have been stuck a while, trying to work it out.”

Strange reached into his rucksack and pulled his tablet out. “I’ve found this indispensable for translating ancient languages—saves a helluva lot of time.” He handed it to Teyla, who looked immediately perplexed by the device. “I don’t suppose you’ve got one of these,” he asked. She shook her head solemnly. “Okayyyyy—well how about I leave this with you for the evening? It’ll make the hours ahead much more productive for you.”

“That is very kind of you, Doctor Strange, although…well…I have no idea how this thing…”

“This tablet,” he told her.

“Oh. This…tablet. I have no skill with such a tool.” She offered it back to him.

“Well, this one isn’t difficult at all. Let me run through its functions for you, and I’ll bet you’ll be breezing through it in no time.”

Stephen went over the basics, and then showed her how to access various websites pertinent to her studies, including a translation site that he had relied on to get him through his early training. Once she got over her initial distrust of the technology as a sufficient aid for study, Teyla adapted readily, and proved to have a defter hand with it than he had anticipated

Next, he removed several books from his pack and set two of them in front of her. “Now, these texts provide an introduction to clairvoyance and divination. I want you to take some time over the next couple of days, read them through.” Teyla picked one up, and then the other, running her fingers across the titles embossed on the covers. “I’ve bookmarked some sections that I think have a direct bearing on what we’re trying to accomplish here,” he told her, “And if you feel ready, I encourage you to try what exercises you find worth your efforts.”

“I will do my best,” she nodded, “Master Salma said I will be mapping unchartered territory.” She looked down, quietly admitting, “I find it all…very…intimidating.”

“No one will be judging you, Teyla.” She met his eyes at that, searching for assurances. “I promise,” he added, “And if we’re lucky, Kamar-Taj will learn as much from you, and you from us.”

Relief dawned first in her eyes, and then spread softly across her face, “I must admit my mentors on Hadeeth were frustrated when they could not provide teaching enough for me to harness and refine my raw ability for divination. I pray that your efforts to guide me will not be a waste of your valuable time.”

“No effort to teach is wasted when the student is sincere in their desire to learn,” he assured her, his voice low and persuasive, “And that is something I’ve learned as both a student and a teacher myself—and not just of the mystics arts. My medical training was more than a decade long process.”

Strange pulled a plain, leather bound book and pen from the side pocket of his rucksack, “One of the simplest things you can do is keep a record of your dreams. The texts advise you do so nightly—or at least as often as you are able to recall your dreams upon awakening.” He slid the items across the table to her. “Whatever details you can remember without concentrating too hard—otherwise your waking mind will try to add definition to things that don’t make sense…”

Teyla nodded, growing excited, “Why yes—immediately record the images and the events of my dreams. How have I not thought of this myself! To keep a…a dream…”

“…journal,” they finished together. She grinned at him, “Your wisdom has already surpassed that of my Hadeethan teachers.”

He chuckled, “As much as I’d like to, I can’t take credit for the idea, Teyla; it’s a basic beginning in most of these texts. Keep in mind, your best results will come from writing down your first thoughts, no matter how confusing or jumbled they may be. Don’t give your mind a chance to filter or rearrange them in a search for meaning.”

“Yes, yes,” she murmured, “I understand…”

“And your feelings, Teyla. How you felt throughout the dream—and how you feel upon awakening. Even if you wake mid-dream, or in the middle of the night,” he stressed, “Write it down. This should help us see patterns in your dreaming, and eventually enable you to distinguish normal dreams from the prophetic ones.”

And there it was: that light in her eyes and upon her face that reminded him of the simple joy of having an avenue of learning open up before him. As exacting as his medical studies had been, there had always been the deep satisfaction of just knowing he was on the path to knowledge meant for him. And again as he began his studies at Kamar-Taj. As a physician, Stephen had seen that light from time to time, in his best student interns—and had forgotten it could be equally satisfying to the teacher who invoked it in their charges. From a task he’d initially dreaded, he was suddenly glad the situation had forced him to become Teyla’s mentor.

Pleased that he had actually given Teyla something concrete in the way of guidance, Stephen asked how she was faring in her other training. Though she maintained that she would have no need for the physical defensive skills when she returned to Hadeeth, she admitted she was impressed watching the Masters of those disciplines at work—and that she felt every moment of her own workouts in the aching muscles that followed in the aftermath.

“Oh yes, they can hurt like hell the first week or so,” he laughed, “But I guarantee you’ll feel fitter than you have in your whole life by the end of the second.”

Eventually, their conversation made its way back to the subject of her studies with Stephen. “The texts I’ve read so far--I have to admit that they’ve left me curious, Teyla. Would you mind telling me what it’s like?”

“The…the dreams?” She seemed surprised he had asked so plainly.

“Yes. How do they work, exactly?”

Her face scrunched and her eyes took on a faraway look as she considered how to answer. “The dreams have always been with me, as…as far back as my memory goes. As a child, I had no idea they were any different from the dreams of others—and so I found no need to speak of them aloud.”

Quietly, Stephen prompted her, “So when did you realize that they were different?”

Teyla’s voice and manner grew solemn as her recollection came to life. “I was…hmmm…seven years of age. Seven Earth years. And I had dreamed a dream for three nights straight—of my closest friend, Meandra. It was a simple dream, and I had no inclination to question it.” She closed her eyes, enrapt in the pictures her mind created. “Meandra slept beneath a midnight, moonlit sky. Fast asleep; she lay upon a bed of moss beside a small creek.” Her mouth drew into a small, fleeting smile. “My child’s mind believed the dream arose from anticipation of a nature walk our teacher had promised to us. I would never have guessed it was a dream of warning.”

“Teyla,” he murmured, “Whatever happened, I’m sure you shouldn’t have blamed yourself.”

She sighed and looked back to him. “Child that I was, it could not be helped. When Meandra wandered away from the group, nobody noticed until we prepared to leave the forest. The adults searched well into the night, but found no sign of her. We all feared that she was lost to us.”

Stephen remained silent, considering the weight of guilt she may have borne, and at so tender an age. Seeing his concern, Teyla shook her head, “No, good Doctor, it was not a fatal loss—though if I had been less afraid, I might have ended everyone’s woes all the sooner.” She shrugged, and cast her eyes away shamefully, “Through a bitter night, I struggled with my fear that a simple word of warning might have spared Meandra losing her way. And even worse, I fretted that through my dreams, I had worked some sort of dark magic as I slept, which might have cost my friend her life.”

Compelled by sympathy, Stephen took her hand—gingerly, for the continuing discomfort in his own. “You were just a girl; surely no one could expect more of you,” he reminded her, “I hope someone was wise enough to tell you so.”

“Indeed,” she nodded, “With the dawn, I sought my mother out, and revealed my dreadful secret. She bid me wait but a little, so that she could give the searchers a description of where Meandra might be found—and when she returned to me, she gave me only love and comfort.” Teyla’s pretty eyes were soft with that memory. “Meandra was not too worse for wear, and was swiftly reunited with her family. And after I had rested a while—still afraid to sleep, lest I might dream dreadfully—Mother explained the nature of my gift. She called it a blessing, and told me it promised a noble destiny if I could learn to use it for the good of my people.”

Resisting the urge to tell Teyla that laying such a charge on a seven year old was extremely poor parenting, Stephen ventured a guess, “I suppose she feels you’ve come of age to fulfill that destiny?”

“Even so,” she admitted, “But know, good Doctor, that this is my hope as well.”

“Of course,” he told her, “I would expect no less.” Strange withdrew his hand from hers, beginning to gather up the few materials which he now judged too elementary for Teyla to find of use. He winced as he lifted one of the heavier volumes, cursing under his breath as he lost his grip and it landed on the table; the thud echoed through the quiet of the library.

Teyla met his eyes for only seconds, but he read her clear understanding in that brief moment, before she looked to his hands. There was no hiding the tremor in them, but he tried to make light of the moment; sighing with feigned exasperation, “I need to remember this sort of heavy reading requires both hands to be effective.” His self-deprecation fell short of lightening the moment.

“It is the rain, is it not,” she asked cautiously, although Stephen was sure she knew the answer already. Teyla’s eyes lingered once again upon his hands, as though committing the network of scars to memory.

“Yes,” he shrugged, downplaying the degree of his discomfort, “Nature’s little way of keeping me humble.”

“Yet the magic you have worked with them is already legend among the students here.” She smiled at his surprise, “Did you not know?”

Stephen clucked his tongue, “Yeah…well…legends are usually half exaggeration anyway. At least here on Earth. You should take those stories with a grain of salt, Teyla.”

“As you wish, Doctor Strange—but their unstinting admiration of your deeds is genuine.” Demurely, she cast her eyes away and added, “A true hero I have heard you called; one who single-handedly battled one of the darkest forces in the multi-verse.”

Stephen waved her praise off (the simple movement enough to set the joints in that hand throbbing again), “Honestly, Teyla—I only did what any Master here would do if faced with such a catastrophic threat.”

The tilt of her head and her sympathetic little smile spoke her response well enough, leaving Strange feeling a bit self-conscious. Standing up to leave, he would have changed the subject, but that she asked after his hands again. Irritated at her dogged attention to his private pain, he tried his best to answer impassively, “I appreciate your concern, Teyla of Hadeeth, but this is a topic I’d rather not discuss.”

“Forgive me please, Doctor Strange. I would not, for all the world, bring you further pain in this regard.” Teyla bit her lip, looking uncertain for several moments. “Please, do not be angry—but as we have discussed my dreams—and as I am under your tutelage in this regard--there is something I must share with you.”

Between the fresh flare of pain in both his hands—and Teyla’s seeming obsession with his wounds—Stephen’s patience was nearly frayed; he inhaled sharply, “What must you share, that cannot wait for another day?”

The young woman from another world blinked several times, her eyes misted over with unshed tears. “It is only that…that…”

“Yes,” he asked through gritted teeth.

“I have dreamt of your hands, Doctor. And not only since I arrived at Kamar-Taj.” Visibly trembling, Teyla rose from her seat, to face him squarely across the cold distance between them, “I have dreamt your hands many times over, from the day I came to Earth to live with my father…and in the ten Earth years since.”

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sobeautifullyobsessed · 8 months

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HOLIDAY DASH GAME

I was nominated by @hobbitsdoitbetter (tysm💖 dear!) to quote any Christmas story or any story of mine that I wish got more love. As it's well past the holidays, I'm going with my beloved, Strangebatch WIP, 'Of Magic, Miracles, and Moonlight'.

Stephen Strange x Teyla of Hadeeth (OFC)

Since his return from that last mission, an unspoken urgency had flourished between them, which threatened the pattern of caution they’d been following to keep their secret safe. Each time they slipped away now into their private world, Stephen had grown incrementally reckless, his need for her pressing him always forward. Teyla counseled him to proceed with greater care, but was helpless as he swept her along, unable to decline his will for them.

Stephen’s recklessness had brought them to this alley tonight; his hot need to hold her, to touch her, to have her, overriding cooler reason. Teyla had offered no defense, allowing him to pull her into the darkened alley without protest, within minutes of them meeting up. He honestly hadn’t planned it this way, but the result was still the same.

Their bodies were pressed tightly together, with Teyla’s back against the coarse brick wall as she submitted herself to his hungry, bruising kisses. She stretched her neck, humming deep in her throat at the greedy way he latched onto her tender flesh; her neck, throat, collarbone, all reddened in the flush of her desire, and from the rub of his goatee against her skin. She flexed one hand in Stephen’s hair, and slid the other onto the delicious dip between his shoulder blades, holding him as close as the layers of material between her body and his would allow--their bodies housing no secrets from one another despite those maddening barriers of cotton and denim. “Oh my dearest…my love…,” she cooed, and then gasped his name when he palmed her breasts through her blouse.

It wasn’t enough for him, could never be enough for him now.

Stephen needed to rake up her top and feel the contours of her ribs on his way to hold her ripe little breasts fully in his hands—yet he hesitated, knowing the wall at her back would be too rough against her exposed skin. “Do it,” she urged him, reckoning his need from his thoughts alone, “Touch me as you will, my love. Your need is my desire as well…” She trailed off into a heartfelt moan as he slipped both hands beneath the cloth and cupped her smoothly, rubbing her stiffened nipples with his thumbs and making her whimper helplessly.

Teyla arched her back as he fondled her, arched into his hands, seeking his firmest contact with her virgin flesh. He cursed inadvertently against her ear, at the sudden, gratifying heat that flared in his palms and thence to his wrists, up his arms, to course through his blood and fill his body with a flame which felt as though only she would be able to quell. Instinctively, Stephen knew this was her energy, pure as her heart, passing into him; there was no pain in this spectacular sensation, only the hunger to give back to her the same, from the depths of his heart. “How is this happening?” he rumbled against her cheek.

“Because I love thee, Stephen,” she answered, lapsing into a patois of a Hadeethan mixed with English. When his mouth recaptured hers, and she accepted the eager thrust of his tongue so she might suckle it luxuriously—the thrill of that intensifying the throbbing ache for her in his groin—Stephen realized he was hearing her in his mind. 'I love thee…I love thee…my heart, it is thine.' This startling intimacy awakened a need in him, a possessiveness, that shocked him.

'You are mine,' he thought back to her, spellbound by their connection; mine, he thought over and over. 'Mine tonight…and tomorrow…and always. Let it be always, my sweet, little angel. Good god…please…'

And surely she heard him, even in the relentless depth of that kiss. 'I am, my darling…for as long as thee shall desire it of me,' she promised him. Incredulous as much from the bond of their minds, as from the miracle that she loved him as he hadn’t dared to dream anyone could, Stephen gently pulled away, to study her face. Her eyes remained shut as she panted softly, her beauty the same pure radiance he had witnessed in her astral form.

Understanding why he paused, feeling his disbelief that he was worthy of such devotion, Teyla leaned her head back enough so she could gaze up into his eyes. Mercifully, tenderly, she reminded him, “My love, I am yours. I have been, from our first kisses. Mayhap even before that night…” Pictures flickered through his mind as she showed him how she had come to love him. Teyla laughing at something silly he had said; Teyla looking up at him empathetically, on the corner of Bleecker and Mercer; Teyla sobbing in his arms on her father’s kitchen floor. In a half dozen heartbeats, she showed him a slew of little moments, wherein he was simply being himself, and all of them illustrating how her heart had fallen irretrievably to him—though in those moments he hadn’t had the eyes to see that amazing truth. There he was, on the Sanctum roof with her in the moonlight, kissing her hand with sweet reverence; there he was kissing her mouth, on one of their secret excursions from Kamar-Taj, with her face cupped in his hands, and a patience that belied how much his blood had come to burn for her.

Overwhelmed, Stephen hung his head down, feeling Teyla’s sweet breath whisper against his cheek; he splayed his hands flat against the wall on either side of her head, trying his damnedest to collect himself. Allowing him his silence, she waited upon him, threading her fingertips through his hairline at the nape of his neck, the palm of her hand blessedly cool upon his flushed skin. She nuzzled his ear, to whisper against it, “Did you not know this, Stephen? Your lips marked me as yours, on our night beneath the moonlight—as I am forever now, if you would have it so.”

Her confession left him weak and filled him with joy—tinged with a trace of shame for the physical hunger that threatened to overrule his better nature. He wondered if she read his lust as well as she read his tenderness for her. Did she understand how his body cried out to take her—to tear through the material that guarded her innocence, to finally breach her after the countless encounters that had sent him to his bed, unable to calm himself except by lengthy meditation? Some nights lately, even that discipline had failed him, and he could only find sleep by picturing her lying sweetly beneath him, beckoning for him to do whatever he desired, while his scarred hands worked the deed he yearned to do inside of her. Would she still adore him if she knew that dirty secret?...

I nominate @strangelock221b @hithertoundreamtof23 @mckiwi @mousedetective @bakerstreethound @aelaer @couldntbedamned

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sobeautifullyobsessed · 1 year

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Of Magic, Miracles, and Moonlight

a Stephen Strange x OFC Romance

Ch.One | Ch.Two | Ch.Three | Ch.Four | Ch.Five

Chapter Six

Teyla was already awaiting him in the courtyard, the woven bag she had brought with her from Hadeeth, packed and sitting at her feet. Stephen knew without asking how excited she must be, for he had arrived several minutes early himself yet she had still preceded him. She wore a gauzy, pale blue dress, belted with a fabric sash of darker blue, which accentuated her slim waist and narrow hips; the matching hemline fell just above her bare calves, and simple denim flats encased her small feet. She had braided several red and navy ribbons into her hair, the total effect more feminine than he’d ever seen her—and very festive. He couldn’t quite tell if this was Hadeethan style dress—or if she had adopted a look seen often enough on the streets of Greenwich Village. It put him in mind of a bohemian peasant design, reminiscent of the late 70’s--and suited her nature perfectly.

“Good morning, Doctor,” she called to him brightly, smiling so brilliantly as he drew near, that it seemed she eclipsed the morning sunshine in the cloudless sky. He noted a flash of silver and bright purple on her hand as she waved him closer.

“Good morning, Teyla,” he replied somberly, unable to resist teasing her for just a few moments, “Going somewhere?”

She tossed her head prettily, smirking at him, “You know well, Sir, as you agreed to escort me upon this adventure. I barely slept last night from the anticipation.”

“Oh, right—I misplaced my to-do list this morning,” he joked. Standing beside her, he felt her happiness as though it were his own, spurring him to speculate if her empathetic nature could create a two-way connection. “And what’s this?” he asked, pointing to the ring on the middle finger of her left hand.

“Another gift from my father—wisely bestowed upon my 16th birthday.” Teyla raised her hand to give him a closer look.

“I’ll be damned,” Stephen murmured, “A mood ring.” He took her hand, chuckling at the surprise, “I haven’t seen one of these in ages.” The vivid violet of the stone was sign enough of the joy reflected in her eyes.

“They have rudimentary magic, you know,” she explained, though it was quite unnecessary. “Father presented it to me as a reminder that it is all well and good to be able to read the feelings of others, but I should never do so to the exclusion of my own.”

“A wise man,” Stephen nodded, looking forward to meeting him more than he had expected. “Shall we then?” he asked, stretching his hands forward to create the portal. As the orange-gold ring flared to life, Stephen scooped up her bag, and offered her his arm.

Wide-eyed and smiling happily, Teyla slipped her arm through the crook of his, and together they passed into the New York Sanctum.

Though she was eager to begin—not even taking a moment to goggle at her new surroundings--Stephen kept Teyla waiting ten full minutes as he changed into street clothes for their trip to Lafayette Street. His thoughts strayed again to contemplate how she had been here—in the Big Apple--all those years ago, attending high school while he perfected his medical skills and worked his way up to the pinnacle of his profession across town. Facts which continued to amaze him as he looked forward to what further surprises might be unveiled when they reached their destination. He promised himself he would give her a thorough tour of his new domain before they returned to Kamar-Taj.

Late afternoon, summer in the city, the bustle of residents and tourists alike thronging on the sidewalks, the disorganized background symphony of traffic, the occasional distant siren rising above it all. His city, whether uptown in his old life—or here and now, as he served as the city’s anonymous guardian. His city, and despite the drastic change in the course of his life, ever his true home.

Upon hitting the sidewalks of Bleecker Street, Teyla showed no surprise at the multitude of people around them—very like a seasoned New Yorker—but wisely stuck close to his side on their trek to her father’s building. She took the opportunity to tell Stephen more about him as they walked. “Father is a professor at Columbia University. He teaches Art History and several intermediate courses in various disciplines.” They stopped at the crosswalk, waiting for the light to change. “He is an artist himself,” she revealed proudly, “He draws and paints, but his true passion is sculpting. He loves the challenge of bringing life and emotion to blocks of inert material—transforming them into his unique vision by the skill of his hands.”

“That’s a passion I can understand,” Stephen said quietly, recalling the medical miracles that had once flowed from his fingertips, before quickly shunting aside the attendant regrets for his loss. The light flashed to allow pedestrians to cross.

The crowd around them moved forward, and though she was jostled by a stranger or two, Teyla remained in place without a word, looking up at him with infinite patience and unspoken understanding, and finally placed a consoling hand on his arm. Caught off guard (how does she do that? he exclaimed inwardly), he drew a deep breath, not trusting himself to speak, instead simply willing her to just let the moment pass. Teyla nodded softly, the bittersweet of her small smile an echo of the heartache he always wished to keep well hidden. Without a word, Stephen patted her hand, maintaining the contact that was her honest proffer of comfort, before flashing her an impudent smile. “Shall we?” he asked, and she squeezed his arm gently in answer, allowing him to lead her on their way.

“And so Father had hoped I would remain here long enough to receive a college degree, but I realized part way through sophomore year that I could not deny my yearning for home,” she concluded as they came to stand in front of a four story brownstone, “But it was not only homesickness that swayed me so—for I knew I had much left to learn of the healing arts from my Hadeethan teachers.”

“And you haven’t seen him since?”

Teyla shrugged and bowed her head, “Regretfully, I am remiss in my familial duty to him.”

“No, Teyla; I’m sure he doesn’t see it that way at all.” Stephen leaned closer, offering what wisdom he could, “He’s your dad after all, and he certainly wants to see you happy and fulfilled above all other things.”

“Yes…you are right, or course, Doctor. Thank you for reminding me.” She drew a long, deep breath, and squared her shoulders, “I am ready now.” Teyla drew a thin chain from around her neck; Stephen hadn’t noticed it, tucked inside her dress. It bore the key to her father’s loft.

The glass door to the building was unlocked. They entered a small atrium lined on either side with tenants’ mail slots, and a buzzer beneath each to allow visitors to announce their arrival. Teyla went directly to the box marked ‘Charles’.

Several minutes passed with no response, so that she rang a few times more. When there was still no answer, she hit the buzzer marked ‘Superintendent’. She looked up at the lobby camera, knowing the super would be checking whomever sought entry. A tinny, disembodied voice asked, “What can I do for ya?”

“Yes…um…hello, Sir,” Teyla addressed the monitor, “I am here to visit my father, Walter Charles.” She raised her key into view, “I have a key to his loft, but he does not appear to be home.”

“Teyla?”

“Um…yes,” she answered, and turned back to motion Stephen forward, “I am accompanied by my mentor, Doctor Stephen Strange.” When there was no reply, she continued, “My visit here was unplanned, so that my father is not expecting me…”

“Well, no, he wouldn’t, would he?” The super sounded puzzled.

“I…I do not understand.” Teyla looked to Stephen, confusion shadowing her features.

He came to her side to address the camera himself, adopting his most authoritative tone, “This young woman has journeyed a mind-boggling distance to visit her father. Do you think you can help her out?”

“Oh, hey man, it’s cool,” said the voice, “It’s just that…well, come on down the hall to my office, ‘cuz we need to talk before ya head on up there, okay?” The latch on the inside door released. Stephen pressed his hand lightly against the small of Teyla’s back, offering reassurance while urging her to pass inside.

The superintendent’s office was clean and brightly lit, which Stephen knew from long experience was a good testament to the quality of the building and its residents. The man stood to welcome them, and invited his guests to take seats opposite him at his desk.

“It seems you know my name, but forgive me please—I do not remember yours.” Teyla’s apprehension was tangible; the strong urge to protect her washed over Stephen once again.

“Uh, yeah…” he extended a meaty hand across the desk to her, “Karl Worley. I’ve been super here…hmmm…four years come September. So we’ve never met, Miss Charles, but I’ve been expecting you…”

“How’s that?” Stephen interjected.

Worley spared him a brief glance, and then offered Teyla his explanation, “Your father closed up his loft a couple years back, but paid the rent five years in advance. Even arranged for a cleaning service to come by every two weeks to keep things tidy for you. Told me your work kept you away for years at a time, but that you might show up one day, unannounced. And that when you did, I should let you in, no questions asked.”

“But why? Where did he go?” Despite her steady manner, Stephen could tell that Teyla was crestfallen.

Worley shook his head, “I’m sorry, Miss Charles—but I don’t have a clue.”

Teyla swallowed hard, absorbing the little information she’d been given. Stephen spoke up on her behalf. “Alright then, Mr. Worley—maybe you can allow us to check out the loft. Perhaps Mr. Charles left his daughter a more complete answer than you were given.”

“I’m guessing as much.” He addressed Teyla directly, softening unexpectedly, “Wherever he is now, I want you to know that you were...are… his first priority, honey. Anybody hearing him talk about you knew right away that he loves you more than anyone or anything in the world.” He raised his right hand as an oath, “God’s honest truth.”

She nodded and thanked Worley for his help and for his kindness, as he handed her a new key card to allow her access to the building and the loft. Stephen was hoping to linger a few moments, perhaps to glean anything the super had left unspoken, but Teyla was too anxious to delay even a minute more.

Once the elevator doors closed, Stephen was quick to wax optimistic for her sake. “I’m sure everything’s okay, Teyla,” he offered, aiming to sound casual, despite the concerns which that conversation had raised, “That guy struck me as pretty melodramatic.”

“Yes. Perhaps you are right.” Though she was trying to be brave, she sounded unconvinced. He wished he could drape an arm around her shoulders and reinforce his own show of bravado, but he guessed she might not welcome that as she likely knew it was a bluff.

Exiting the lift, Teyla marched forward, undaunted by the imagined possibilities. She slid her keycard into the door slot and entered the accompanying security code, then swung wide the door.

The place was even more spotless than Stephen had expected; the walls were bare, with stacks of—what he assumed were—framed photographs and artwork leaning along the baseboards, and light gray drop cloths covering the furnishings. The windows glimmered with the late afternoon, summer sunlight, but the loft must have been climate controlled, for the air temperature was quite comfortable. Teyla moved about the space tentatively at first, eventually calling out for her father several times, hoping against hope he would surprise her with an answer.

Stephen noticed a large white envelope tacked to the gleaming, stainless steel refrigerator. Her name was embossed in black sharpie across the front. “Teyla, honey,” he beckoned, unconsciously using the same endearment for her as Worley had, “There’s something here you need to see.”

She rushed to his side, hope breaking upon her face; the doctor in him noted her respiration was shallow, her pupils grown large despite the bright sunlight flooding the room. Classic symptoms of ‘fight vs. flight’, he concluded; she’s barely holding it together. “It’s going to be alright, honey,” he assured her, wishing with all his heart that saying it would make it so.

Her eyes wide as saucers, were locked on his as she nodded solemnly—and somehow, even in her extremity, she managed a wee smile, that felt like it was for his sake alone. She took the envelope in hands that trembled slightly, removed the letter inside, and began to read it to herself.

Several paragraphs in, Teyla gave the barest shake of her head. “No,” she whispered, her voice rising each time she repeated the word. “No…no…no,” she said, shaking her head vehemently. “No,” she whimpered at the last, letting the pages drift from her hands as she fell to her knees, covering her face and weeping painfully. Stephen could feel her heart breaking.

He crouched down and pulled her into his arms, feeling the sobs that wracked her penetrate his bones. Breathing in her pain, praying he could give her some measure of solace, he found her to be so small and frail in his embrace, that he had to take care not to hold on too tight. “Oh god, Teyla,” he murmured against her hair, “I’m so, so sorry…” Wondering what sort of comfort might make a difference for her.

She cried this way for several minutes, while he stroked her hair and crooned what consolation he could, letting her tears wet his collar and neck. He found himself rocking her gently, and eventually she began to relax. Teyla drew several deep breaths, doing her best to come back to herself, beginning to disentangle from him--though Stephen was unwilling to let go of her completely just yet.

She laid a cheek against his own—how flushed her skin felt!—prompting him to speak his thoughts, “Anything you need, Teyla…just tell me, and it’s as good as done.”

Her voice raw with pain, she thanked him, “You have done already what I needed most. But please, Sir, do no leave me here alone.”

Stephen squeezed his eyes shut against the sorrow in her plaintive request; gently he urged her, “If ever you should read me, read me now, my dear; I wouldn’t leave your side now for all the world.”

Teyla sniffled--and he swore he felt a flash of her sweet smile—before nodding against him. “You are a good man, Stephen Strange. The best comfort I can imagine having, so far from my home.” He shivered as she brushed her lips against his cheek—a second kiss, but as far from that first, fairy kiss as the Moon is from Mother Earth. She pulled away enough to face him directly. He had never thought to see such despair in the depths of her soft brown eyes—but the steel that was a gift from Moraine was there as well.

“C’mon,” he told her, rising to his feet and pulling her along, “Does this place have a sofa or somewhere soft to sit?”

Teyla nodded, pointing to one of the cloth draped shapes several feet away. Still holding her hand, Stephen led her to it, pulled back the cover, and motioned for her to take a seat. Once situated, he crouched by her side again, “You stay here. I’m going to find you something cool to drink. You’ve had a terrible shock, and I’m still enough of a doctor to tend to you properly.”

Checking the fridge, Stephen found several sealed bottles of water; finding them unexpired, he removed two, cracking one open as he returned to Teyla’s side. “Drink it slowly, Teyla. Doctor’s orders,” he quipped.

Obediently, she swallowed a little at a time, and before he took a seat beside her, asked quietly, “The letter, though. I haven’t finished it.”

“Rest a little first, honey. It’ll be better for you this way.”

She sighed hard, but offered no protest, folding her legs beneath her and laying her head against the top of the couch. Her eyes were unfocused, and though he sat no more than a dozen inches away, Stephen felt certain she didn’t register his presence--until she spoke…

Softly at first, and then with growing urgency. “Why did I not dream of him, Doctor Strange? Of what use is this ability, if I was blind to see my own father’s need?” Tears spilled from her doleful eyes, “And why did I dream of your hands, yet had no clue to who you were, let alone any chance of preventing your pain?”

Too familiar himself, with guilt’s useless but well-worn paths, Stephen counselled her, “Teyla, you mustn’t do this to yourself. There are some questions we can never answer…and some tasks that are beyond us, no matter the sacrifice are willing to make…”

“But why?” she interjected, “Why show me visions where miracles are needed, and not give me the chance to work even the smallest of miracles to right things? Why give me the desire and the skill to be a Healer, if not to allow me to help those in dire need?” She laid her hand over her heart, and her pain there was palpable, her grief a wave that washed over him, “Of what use am I if I could not even save my own father?”

Stephen bowed his head, the memories of his own lost opportunities grown painfully fresh, the wisdom he had to offer earned through his own failures, “Oh, Teyla—believe me, I’ve asked myself the same sort of questions. And I’ve learned that’s it’s the nature of miracles that we can’t choose where and when to perform them. All we can really do is be ready to act without hesitation when the opportunity presents itself.”

Wearily, Teyla rested her forehead against her hand, “You truly believe this, Stephen Strange?”

“Absolutely,” he answered, watching her closely, wanting to ease her anguish.

“Your council is wise, and gives a measure of consolation.” She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, then nodded to herself. “Now I would know all that my father had to say.”

“Of course. Right away.” Stephen rose and retrieved the letter from where it had fallen, then returned to Teyla’s side.

“Perhaps…” she started, tentative in her request, “Perhaps you could read it to me? I cannot brave this news alone.”

Though reticent to broach her privacy, he nodded, and took a deep breath before he began…

My Dearest Teyla,

My darling girl. I’m so sorry to have to tell you these things in a letter. You deserve better, but some things are beyond our control. If you are reading this, chances are very likely that this is my final farewell. I had hoped for a chance to see you once more; in person at least, for you are so often in my happiest of dreams. Indeed, you are the sweetest dream I’ve ever had, and the one that I take with me wherever I go. Know that when I close my eyes for the last time, your image will be the one that sees me into my final rest.

I won’t tell you not to mourn. Your heart is beautiful and deep, and your nature too loving to do anything else but mourn. But do not let it dim your light, for the world—both our worlds—is always in need of more light.”

(Stephen stole a look her way; Teyla held her head proudly, her eyes closed, appearing the image of calm strength despite her sorrow.)

“The time you spent with me here was the best time of my life. And coupled with the time I had with your Mother, my most prolific. My beautiful Muses—no Artist could ask for better, nor think to be blessed with two so distinct and--in their own ways—perfect ones!

About three years after you returned to Hadeeth, I began to experience blinding headaches. My doctor at the time diagnosed them as migraines, prescribed a series of medications that didn’t help, and advised me to work less and relax more. Ha!—well, I was better served ‘self-medicating’, but even that did not delay the inevitable. In time, I began to experience weakness on the left side of my body, and difficulty maintaining my balance. Too late I sought a second, third, and fourth opinion, so that this thing--an anaplastic astrocytoma, they told me--growing inside my brain had a well-entrenched foothold, from which neither chemotherapy nor radiation could shake loose. My last hope was a hot shot, genius of a doctor, practicing his art (I say art, for it seems to me that medicine truly is as much an art as it is a science—and not all those licensed have the gift to make real miracles happen) out of Metropolitan General, uptown.”

(Stephen hissed softly, rereading the last sentence to himself, recognizing with bitter clarity that the ‘hot shot genius’ had to have been himself. Recognizing that he—perhaps—had played a role in Teyla’s heartbreaking loss. He cleared his throat before he began reading aloud again.)

Getting an appointment with this man was nearly unheard of, but I managed. Unfortunately, within the first five minutes of our consultation, he made it clear I was inoperable, and with very little ceremony, sent me on my way to do my dying discreetly, and far from view.”

(Closing his eyes, Stephen tried to remember the anonymous face of Walter Charles, one of too many he had written off in his hubris. His time, then, had been far too valuable to waste on hopeless cases; his business was not to provide comfort to the dying, but to save those patients who provided the calculated challenge enough for him to cure while creating breakthroughs in the field of neurosurgery.)

“Thus leaves my story off. I’ve been through the five stages from grief to acceptance, and I feel ready for the journeys to come. Finishing here, then moving along to the next. You know I believe in the next. There’s just too much wonder and beautiful in this wide, boundless Universe to believe we are but a candle’s brief flame. You and your Mother are proof enough of that.

Please tell your Mother she was in my thoughts as well, during my last months. And tell her that after her, there was no other woman for me; our time may have been relatively brief, but it gave me a full lifetime of happiness.

Teyla, my gentle, loving Teyla, know that as I go you were—you are—the greatest creation that came from me (though I should take little credit for how you turned out, as so much of who you are is as natural to you as breathing). You are my opus, my masterpiece, the answer to every ‘why am I here?’ that I have ever asked. My purpose and my sweetest reward. I pray you find fulfillment and peace of mind & spirit, in measure even further beyond that which you have given me.

Love today & always,

Dad

Teyla remained silent, brushing tears from her cheeks with both her hands, and then looked to him. His stomach roiling with shame, Stephen could not hold her gaze for long, and turned his attention back to the remaining pages of the letter. He skimmed through them quickly, then shared the contents with her. “These last two pages list your father’s assets, and how they’ve been distributed. It seems he sold a lot of his work to ensure you’d have this place to come home to, and to see to your living expenses and whatever other needs might arise down the road,” he explained, feeling her watch him, keeping his eyes squarely on the papers in his hands, “The money’s in trust, and he left instructions should you want to access it. The bulk of the work he didn’t sell he left in the hands of Columbia University’s School of the Arts--again for you to access as you wish.” Finally, he met her eyes again, finding no hint of accusation though he thought she must feel his guilt. “Those works that had the greatest meaning to him—and, he hoped, to you—are stored here…” Stephen trailed off, seeing the gratitude in Teyla’s eyes, knowing he deserved that the least of all things. He folded the letter and handed it to her.

“Thank you, Doctor,” she told him quietly, “You have made this burden far easier to bear.” She held the letter against her heart. “I nearly heard my father’s voice as you brought his words to life. This is a gift I will not soon forget.”

His face felt hot with remorse, wondering when she would read the truth of his culpability; honesty might be the best policy, relieving him of guilt, but he could not inflict that additional sorrow upon her. “It’s the least I could do, Teyla. I wish…I wish I could do more.” So much more, he thought, wondering if when she did learn the truth of his failure to help her father, she would be able to even look at him…let alone forgive him.

(Having just reread this, I have to ask: if this touched your heart in any way, please, please reblog it. I feel that letter is one of my best pieces of writing.)

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sobeautifullyobsessed · 1 year

Text

Of Magic, Miracles, and Moonlight

a Stephen Strange x OFC Romance

Ch.One | Ch.Two | Ch.Three | Ch.Four

Chapter Five

Attending to his responsibilities as Master of the New York Sanctum often kept Stephen away from Kamar-Taj for days, or even weeks, at a time. As a key bulwark in the defense of Earth against other worldly and other dimensional threats, the Sanctum was his top priority, even as he continued to refine his skills and hone his mastery of the mystic arts. Fortunately, his former career had left him well prepared for the pressure and demands upon his time and talents, forging him into an accomplished multi-tasker. With constant vigilance as his watchword—and the assistance of a dozen advanced Adepts rotating through his Sanctum on a regular basis--Stephen succeeded handily.

He returned to Kamar-Taj after a two-week stint, which included a protracted battle against several demons who sought to assert mind control over a gullible group of religious cultists, hoping to use them as conduit from one of the dark dimensions to create a foothold upon Earth. Glad for the quiet and orderly calm which the compound offered, Stephen headed for the library before checking in with masters of the various disciplines—for Wong remained his best source for keeping track of not only crucial developments within the facility, but for updating him on the small details of everyday life among the students.

Crossing the courtyard, he spotted Teyla—now clad in the currant-colored garments of an Adept—sitting on one of the waist high stone partitions, speaking with a male Adept who appeared about her age. He was leaning against the low wall; they looked quite comfortably close, as she laughed at something he had said. Another young man soon joined them, boosting himself up to sit beside her. Stephen was glad to see this indication that Teyla had found a good fit among her peers; her focus had been so steadfast upon training, and upon the work she longed to do, that he’d been concerned she might isolate herself from social interactions. He grinned as her honest laughter carried across to him easily on the clear, morning air--making him wish he could be party to the trio’s conversation, and discover what had animated her so.

Mixed in with his curiosity, Stephen felt a quiet swell of protectiveness move him, for Teyla’s sake. He supposed it wasn’t too unusual—he did bear a share of responsibility for her well-being, after all. Yet the music of her laughter was lovely enough to leave him with a twinge of longing for a chance of his own to make her laugh, and to see the amusement that must color her soft doe-eyes…

With a deep breath, he shook off his uncharacteristic woolgathering and turned his mind back to practical matters, making a mental note to ask Wong about the Adepts paying such close attention to Teyla—reasoning that Moraine wouldn’t want them distracting her daughter too much from her training regimen.

Teyla’s voice followed him as he reached the steps leading to the library, “Doctor. A moment of your time, please?” Stephen turned back, to find her sprinting towards him.

“Good morning, Teyla,” he grinned, noticing the bloom of healthy color in her cheeks; life at Kamar-Taj obviously suited her well. “What can I do for you?”

She reached his side, bright eyed and not winded in the least, “I wished to welcome you back. I am glad to see you are well, and safely returned to us.”

“Thank you—I’m happy to be back myself.” And he was; coupled with Teyla’s sincere, enthusiastic greeting, there was something rejuvenating in returning to the place where his eyes had at last been opened to the hidden wonders of the universe. “I see you’ve advanced quickly while I’ve been gone.”

She gave a little twirl, showing off her new tunic, and beaming with delight, “It was only yesterday I was awarded the ranking of Adept.”

Though the last time they had spoken, she had sworn again to work her hardest, Stephen hadn’t expected her to achieve that rank so quickly.�� “You have good reason to be proud, Teyla—you’ve accomplished much in your time here.” His honest compliment was rewarded with her prettiest smile yet. “And I’m sure your mother will be pleased with your progress,” he added.

“That is one of my hopes, Doctor,” she proclaimed, “But in truth, I have other priorities beyond pleasing Mother.” For the first time, Teyla seemed unintimated by Moraine’s heavy-handed expectations—and if it was her studies at Kamar-Taj that had awakened this new streak of independence, he would be delighted to encourage her.

“Teyla, am I correct in guessing there may be something I can do to help you accomplish these goals?”

“Is mind-reading one of your many skills, Doctor Strange?” She laughed softly, and somehow the charm of it—coupled with the guileless admiration in her warm, brown eyes—left him feeling about ten years younger, and very light of heart.

“I’m afraid I’m not that talented,” he chuckled, “Let’s just call it an educated guess instead.” She acquiesced with a small nod, so that he asked, “How can I help you, Teyla of Hadeeth?”

“Well, there are two matters on my mind, Doctor,” she began, “I hope to begin studies in the mystic healing arts of Kamar-Taj. I am already skilled in those of my own people, and I wish to learn as much as I can here, not only to expand my abilities, but to share them with other Healers when I return home.”

“A reasonable request, and one I recall from your arrival here.” He weighed her entreaty only a moment before telling her, “I think we can make arrangements to begin, so long as you maintain good progress in your other studies…”

“Yes…yes, of course,” she readily agreed.

“And you will continue in your efforts to develop a better understanding and some control over your prescient dreaming…” he reminded her.

“Absolutely!” she exclaimed.

‘Excellent,” he commended her. Then, in light of his role as her tutor on the subject, Stephen continued, “And how goes the dream journal these days?”

Teyla raised a brow and parted her lips to respond, then seemed to reconsider her answer before replying cautiously, “I have made a record of my dreams, though…hmmm…for the most part, I do not believe they are of import to my training…”

“Are you that certain, Teyla?” His curiosity piqued, Stephen felt obligated to advise her, “Perhaps you should consult with Master Salma or myself; sometimes a student lacks the perspective to judge such things for themselves.”

She looked away, abruptly self-conscious and fairly stammering back, “No, Sir…no. I am certain my…these…these dreams are merely the ordinary dreams of…of a mind tired by days of rigorous training and study.” Facing him again, her eyes plead silently for him to let the subject rest at that.

Perplexed, Stephen chose not to belabor the topic—for now. “Okaaaay. We can hold off on that a bit—as long as you’re sure there’s nothing important.” He observed her closely for any clue as to what might eclipse her usual candor. She showed relief—and gratitude—but no hint of any secret. “And your second request?”

Eagerly, she addressed a subject much dearer to her heart, “My father, Doctor. I thought perhaps you might allow me time to visit him. I have fulfilled my promise, after all—and I long to reunite with him soon.”

Her visible affection for her father would be persuasion enough, even without reminding him of his promise. “The sooner, the better, I’m guessing.”

“Yes, Sir. Yes…please?”

“I’ll need to check with your other Masters first, but I can’t imagine they’ll give me anything but glowing reports about your progress.” He laid a hand upon her shoulder, happy to fulfill her fondest wish, “Consider it as good as done, Teyla. Will tomorrow morning be soon enough?”

She replied exactly as expected, “Oh yes, Doctor Strange. Thank you so very much!” And then, to his surprise, she moved in close and brushed a fleeting kiss upon his cheek. Not giving him a moment to react, she backed away, “Do forgive my forwardness—I’m just…I’m very glad for this gift.”

So pleasant a kiss—and light as a fairy’s, he mused. As though he’d actually been kissed by a fairy at any point in his life. Recovering swiftly, Stephen quirked her a crooked smile, “Think nothing of it, Teyla—I’d kiss me too over such good news.”

She regarded him skeptically, then allowed his ready humor to set her at ease. “Indeed, Doctor Strange. That’s quite a thing to picture.” She bobbed her head in farewell, “I should be off to class, but will look for your affirmation later.”

“Yes.” As she turned to go, he remembered to ask, “By the way, just where on Earth does your father live?”

“New York City,” she nearly sang in her delight, “In the village of Greenwich.”

“Greenwich Village,” he had muttered as he watched Teyla cross the courtyard en route to her class. Why does that not surprise me? It was enough to make him speculate that the Universe had a perverse sense of humor. Weeks ago, when Teyla had revealed her history of dreaming of his hands, he’d acknowledged it was more than just coincidence that their paths had eventually crossed here in Kathmandu. After the initial shock—and the uneasy hours spent wondering if perhaps she’d been given those visions in order to save him the tragic damage that destroyed his old world—Stephen had accepted it as yet another marvel of his new world, and as a sign he was exactly where he was supposed to be. This latest detail almost seemed like overkill—but also led him to suspect that this kind, ingenuous young woman might have a significant role to play in the mystic mission of Kamar-Taj…and mayhap, in his own service to the multi-verse.

As promised, Stephen sent a Novice to deliver a message to Teyla that evening, telling her to be ready to depart from the main courtyard at 9am the next morning--and that he would accompany her. He planned to conjure the portal himself, bringing her to the New York Sanctum personally, before setting out for her father’s place. Though he felt a bit anxious, he remained intrigued to see what further “coincidences” might arise between them, and if there might be an overarching purpose revealed as to their unanticipated…entanglement. Perhaps meeting her father might shed some light on the rapidly multiplying twists of fate that seemed to be bringing them together. If not, well…at least he could set his mind at ease, knowing Teyla was safely delivered to the one soul in a city of eight million plus, who would wish only for her best.

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sobeautifullyobsessed · 1 year

Text

Of Magic, Miracles, and Moonlight

a Stephen Strange x OFC Romance ~ chapter two

genre: pre-Infinity War, slow burn romance, older man/younger woman, teacher/student to friends to lovers

characters: Stephen Strange, Wong, Teyla of Hadeeth (OFC), Moraine of Hadeeth (OC), additional OCs as Kamar-Taj staff

rating: general audience to begin with, later chapters contain 18+ material

Chapter One

The figure that emerged from the multi-dimensional portal three days later, was far from the carbon copy of her mother that Stephen Strange had expected.

Though similarly robed, any resemblance between the two women appeared to end there. Where Moraine of Hadeeth was stately and striking, and possessed of an unearthly sort of beauty, her daughter Teyla seemed to be plain, simple and unassuming. Pale-skinned, with light brown hair that hung limply past her shoulders, her shapeless robe appeared to hide a slight frame, and her sandaled feet were nearly as small as a child’s—yet her face informed him that she was perhaps a decade older than he had anticipated.

Stephen opened his mouth, about to speak a word of welcome, but she had turned back to the portal, taking a last look at whatever—or whomever—she had left behind. She remained with her back to him, until the circle closed; in its wake, she bowed her head a moment, and then squared her shoulders, readjusting the straps of the large, cleverly woven bag that she bore upon her back. Finally facing him, Teyla gave a formal little bow, but the weight of her basket shifted, nearly upsetting her balance, so that Stephen had to lunge forward to catch a hold of her arm before she fell.

“Th…th…thank you, Sir,” she managed, sounding shy and more than a little embarrassed, “I…I think I can manage it now.” Her speech had a slight lilt to it, reminding him that English was not her native tongue. Teyla kept her eyes lowered as she worked to regain her composure.

Stephen released her, backing up a few steps, frowning at the unavoidable need to abruptly invade her personal space. “You’re welcome, Miss…” What should he call her? Miss Teyla might sound a bit awkward—but Mistress surely didn’t fit; he settled on changing the subject, helpfully suggesting, “Why don’t you set that down? I can have someone collect it for you later, and leave it in your quarters.”

She nodded, and murmured her thanks again, allowing the basket to slide from her shoulders, onto the ground. She took a deep breath, bracing herself to address him, and finally met his eyes. “You are Master Strange, I take it?” Teyla spoke softly, quietly contrite, “Please forgive my clumsiness. I am normally not such a…klutz.”

Despite the initial awkwardness between them, Stephen smiled at her use of the Earth colloquialism. Surprise colored her soft brown eyes, as if she had expected a stern reaction to her artlessness. Though her face was rather ordinary (and so unlike her mother’s, he mused again) her widened, doe-like eyes, shaded by a thick fringe of lashes, were lovely—and very expressive. At the moment, they made her seem a little sad (perhaps she is, he thought, in leaving her familiar world behind), the total effect softening what might otherwise seem plain--and stirring him to a bit of sympathy.

“No need to apologize,” he told her kindly, “And you are very welcome here, in Kamar-Taj.”

A little smile crept upon the corners of her mouth, “I thank you for your hospitality and kindness, Master Strange.” A bit of confidence restored, she offered him her right hand, in another show of familiarity with the customs of her father. “I am Teyla of Hadeeth—but I suppose you know that already,” she shrugged, diffident but clearly well-mannered.

Stephen reached to shake her hand, and as their hands met, she breathed in sharply. Though it often nettled him to see strangers’ reactions to his scars, he had learned to let it pass unanswered—unless they outright gawked. Telya’s grasp was light, so he guessed she might be concerned a firmer hold would cause him pain. She studied their hands together, flipping them a bit so she could see the back of his. He swore he heard her whisper, ‘oh…they are yours’, before she looked up to study his face, shock and curiosity evident upon her simple features.

“Pardon me.” Brusquely, he withdrew his hand, having tempered his statement with a bit of latitude—as rude as her reaction seemed, he believed no ill had been intended. “An old injury,” he added, “And one that brought me to Kamar-Taj. In the greater scheme of things, these scars have no bearing on the work we do here—but I would ask you, kindly, not to stare.”

“Of…of course, Master Strange.” Teyla bowed her head, embarrassed again at her faux pas, “I meant no disrespect, Sir.”

Stephen nodded, certain of her sincerity, and ready to move along to more important things. “Well then…your mother has tasked us with furthering your education in the mystic arts.” She nodded, so that he continued, “But before we proceed, we need to evaluate what skills you have mastered.”

“Yes. Yes, I understand.” She had visibly brightened at the change of topic. “My mother told me it would be so.”

“Good. Excellent, in fact,” he replied, adopting the not so welcome role as mentor, “We have several Masters in residence, and I have made arrangements for you to see them. No rush, so if you need some time to get your bearings here…”

“No, that will not be necessary, Master Strange,” she told him eagerly, “I am prepared for whatever tests you have planned.”

“Alright then—if you would follow me,” Stephen motioned to the archway to his right, “We’ll get you started right away.”

Stephen had left his charge in one of the smaller practice rooms, allowing for Masters of the various disciplines to put her through her paces without unnecessary distractions. As he knew himself not to be as expert in some disciplines as his peers, he thought it best to rely on their judgement, rather than assess Teyla himself; and a variety of opinions would certainly provide a more complete appraisal of her overall skill level and potential, than that of a single teacher. Wong soon joined Strange in the Sanctuary Room, to wait for the Masters to report their findings.

The results were mixed, but at least gave Stephen a handle on where they needed to concentrate their efforts. Teyla had managed a portal, after some effort, marking her halfway between a Novice and an Adept. She handily moved--even levitated-- small objects, and did so with very little effort. But she had no training in hand-to-hand combat, and no skill—or seeming interest—in conjuring weapons, let alone items she might use in self-defense. Exactly the skills her mother hoped we would foster in her, Steven concluded, and therein lies our challenge.

On the upside, Master Salma had been astounded at Teyla’s ability to read people’s emotional states; she reported that the young Hadeethan’s skill was well beyond any that she had encountered since becoming Master of that discipline. “She doesn’t even require physical contact to accurately read someone; she worked wonders just in the proximity of the test subjects,” she informed Strange, visibly excited at the discovery, “And when I placed several objects on a table across the room from her, Teyla successfully read how each item had been last used, by the emotional residue left behind by the user. Allowing her to handle the objects enabled her to pick up on further details—beyond the most recent user.”

“Incredible. Could you tell if her abilities were innate, or the product of some intensive training?” If the later, Stephen believed it would be worth an exchange of knowledge with the Hadeethans to develop such a program for Kamar-Taj.

Salma shook her head, “Best I can tell is she’s a natural empath—and someone must have recognized it in her early on, because her skills are off the charts.”

“That good, eh?”

“Frankly, her abilities far surpass anything Kamar-Taj has seen in a student or a teacher in…well, centuries,” Salma grinned, “When time allows, I’d love to see what she can do reading someone from another room.”

Strange took a moment, mulling over the new information. “Hmm…sounds to me like she should be teaching us, rather than us training her.”

“We could see about that--eventually,” Salma replied wryly, “Though I’m not ready to be replaced quite yet, Stephen. But for now, there are a few things we can do to help her foster and refine her skills.”

“Such as?”

“Well, one of the pitfalls of this sort of empathy is a kind of…bleed, if you will--when reading in especially intense situations--which can influence and effect the empath’s own emotional health and mental state. But that is something we can help her with,” she revealed confidently, “We can show her how to screen out those things that might impair objectivity of mind—and the things that could play havoc with her heart.”

Stephen nodded, satisfied with the thoroughness of her assessment. “One thing, though, Master Salma. Teyla’s mother charged us with building on her daughter’s raw ability for divination—or at least giving her some guidance in its practical use.”

Salma shook her head, “I wish I had better to offer her, but all we can manage right now is an education in dream interpretation. Beyond that is territory that few here have any experience with.” She bobbed her head in a small bow, “Now if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen—I’ve a group of Adepts awaiting my guidance this afternoon.”

“Of course—and thank you, Salma. You’ve given us much to think about.”

Strange watched her leave, considering their limited options, and then looked to Wong, “There must be something in our library, or in the Ancient One’s collection, that we can use to give this young woman the instruction she needs.”

“There are,” Wong offered, “Dusty old scrolls, arcane texts--that seldom see the light of day. You’ll have some heavy reading to do to bring yourself up to speed, Stephen.”

“I hope you’re joking, Wong,” Strange replied, “I can’t be the best man for the job.”

“I’m afraid so. You’re the quickest study we’ve got,” Wong chuckled, enjoying the irony that’s Strange’s strengths had him cornered, “And that unbeatable memory of yours is bound to come in handy.”

Stephen frowned, sighing hard as he recognized the futility of any protest he might make, “I’m not getting out of this one, am I?”

“Nope.” Wong favored him with a rare smile, “I’ll have those texts ready for you by the end of the day.” He laughed quietly to himself, leaving Stephen behind, muttering under his breath.

Stephen looked up at the sound of gentle rapping, to see Teyla pop her head through the entryway of the Sanctuary Room. “Hello? Master Strange? You summoned me?” Patiently, she waited in place for him to acknowledge her.

“Yes,” he stood and motioned her forward, “Please—have a seat.” Again, her appearance was not as he’d anticipated; she had changed from her Hadeethan robe into an over-sized tee shirt and well-worn denim leggings, and had pulled her hair back into a ponytail. The look knocked at least a half a dozen years from her age. Now, she looked like a typical freshman from any American university—and though her alien heritage was equal to her human blood, for a few moments she was like an unexpected taste of home.

He couldn’t suppress a grin as she neared him, “Blue Oyster Cult. Nice.”

“Oh…yes,” she replied, surprised at his reference, “Do you know of them, Master Strange?”

“I do indeed,” he nodded. “In fact, they were a part of the…” Stephen chuckled at the memories, “…soundtrack of my youth.”

“I have enjoyed their poetry at times, although it is often quite somber—but they were among my father’s favorite performance groups.” Her admission was a pleasant surprise. Teyla took a seat across from him. “This garment was my father’s,” her voice grew soft with sentimentality, “He made a gift of it to me, at our last parting. I do not wear it publically on Hadeeth—there are those on my home world who lack tolerance regarding my patrimony.” She shrugged shyly, and smiled—though Stephen noted it did not reach her eyes.

“I take it that it’s been some time since you’ve seen him,” he prompted her, curious as to the time she’d spent on Earth.

She took a breath, seeming to do a calculation before she answered, “Why yes…it’s been…hmm…nearly six Earth years. But I hope to find some time to visit him, once my training here is complete.”

“Well then, we will do our best to move things along so that you can do that as soon as possible.” Her smile in reply was far more sincere than her last, leaving Stephen glad to have given her the cause. “So,” he continued, getting down to the most important business at hand, “Ideally, your training here will involve several disciplines; defensive spells, and the conjuring of defensive tools, as well as helping you to control and tap into your gift for divination.” She looked down at the mention of the later, as though uncomfortable with the topic—and when she raised her eyes, he could swear she was looking at his hands again. He shook it off, telling himself he was being overly self-conscious due to her blunder at their initial meeting.

“And healing spells,” she asked, “That way my future lies--so they would be the most welcome lesson of all.”

Healing. That had been his life and his own future, once upon a time—and though he could never return to those days, Stephen would forever think of himself as Doctor, before any other title he would ever bear. He appreciated that such a vocation was her top priority.

“We will offer what we can, Teyla. Though the bulk of your time will be spent working towards proficiency in those elements that are the backbone of the mystic arts.

“As my mother wills it,” she replied, resigned to the plan that Moraine had intended for her.

“Yes,” he nodded, “And beginning in the morning, you will have a minimum two hours training, daily, in physical defense and combat…”

“No…wait…there is no need for that.” Teyla’s humble, placid expression dissolved into a stubborn mien. “My work is as a healer. I thought you understood this…”

“Yes,” he replied again, holding up one hand to signal her to quiet a moment and allow for an explanation, “Please, Teyla—there are sound reasons for this…”

Though her eyes flashed defiantly, she pursed her lips into silence, ceding the moment to him. Stephen continued, calling on what skill for diplomacy was his, “I promise you will understand this necessity as you advance in your education here. Concentrating first on developing physical discipline is a stepping stone to nurturing mental discipline. Master your body, and the path is clear to master your mind.” Stephen paused, watching her expression soften, pleased that he was getting his message across to her. “Once you have mastered mental discipline, you can achieve nearly anything, as long as you have the will for it.”

Teyla sighed hard, and rolled her eyes (damn, that’s a purely human habit, he thought, trying not to smile at how much it made her look like an impatient teenager), “As you say, Master Strange.” She tilted her head, offering an apology, “Please forgive my rash words, Sir. I only just…well, you see, I feel my purpose so strongly, and any delay is a source of frustration. I promise I will do, faithfully, whatever is required of me to complete my training.”

Stephen leaned across the table, seeking to put her at ease. “I understand your passion, Teyla of Hadeeth. Would you believe I’ve felt the same myself?” Her eyes went wide as she listened. “I was…I am…a healer myself. A doctor. My specialty was neurosurgery. I spent half my life studying, learning, training, searching for greater knowledge, because I knew without a doubt that these hands were meant precisely for that work.” He held them up to her, making no effort to conceal their shaking, let alone the painful map of scars that symbolized all that he had lost, “These hands, Teyla, worked medical miracles; I helped thousands to lead better, longer lives. I know the desire to heal, and I know the sweet satisfaction of that service done well. But I never would have reached that pinnacle without the beginning baby steps. Trust me when I say, you will get there.”

Teyla’s soft, doe-eyes had misted up as he told his story. He hadn’t meant to make her feel sorry for him—never, never did he intend that with anyone in this new life. He only needed to make his point clear. Stephen would have spoken more, but that she took his took one of his hands, studying it even more intently than when they’d shaken hands in the courtyard. “I understand…Doctor. Doctor Strange.” She smiled sadly, “You have lived through much, to come to this place. But your journey has been worth the cost.” She released his hand—which tingled warmly afterwards—and told him, “I will follow whatever path you deem most wise, Doctor Strange. I will put my future in your hands.” She rose, and made a little bow, bidding him goodnight.

Stephen sat in silence a while longer, considering the puzzle Teyla presented. She seemed soft and unassuming, yet she spoke her mind without compunction. She had a share of unexpected wisdom for her age (although he actually wasn’t even sure yet, how old she was), and she was passionate about her purpose in life. He had to respect that—and that her heart seemed bent toward service to others, made him like her even more. He found he didn’t dread so much, the research he would have to put in to help her refine her divination skills; perhaps he’d even learn a thing or two that might be of use to him someday.

Wong—ever true to his word—had sent a selection of scrolls and texts to Stephen’s room, so that the eager student in him couldn’t resist getting a start in researching the rare art he was obliged to tutor Teyla in. He read for about an hour—until his eyes were bleary—making mental notes of key ideas he would revisit when his mind was fresher. All the while, though, his thoughts would drift back to those final moments of their conversation. How Teyla had responded so sympathetically to his story; how she had taken his hand. Under normal circumstances, he would have found that far too familiar, especially on so short of an acquaintance—yet she had breached that personal barrier so gently, he hadn’t even thought to protest.

Only when he’d set his head upon his pillow and closed his eyes, winding down to sleep, did the realization hit him. Master Salma had told him the young woman was an empath of extraordinary skill—and that’s exactly what she’d done to him. She’d read his feelings as casually as one might read a street sign; read his feelings and understood with a kind of quiet intimacy, his struggle. And when she touched his hand, he was willing to bet she gained some understanding of the physical cost his accident had wreaked upon him. Stephen wasn’t quite sure how to feel about it; it wasn’t an intentional violation of his privacy, and certainly she’d meant no harm. In fact, he wondered if that warm tingle her touch had left behind was some trace of healing magic—and if so, was it even possible that she could offer some relief to him, when he had long accepted that he and the lingering pain of his damaged hands were meant to be lifetime companions.

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sobeautifullyobsessed · 1 year

Text

Of Magic, Miracles, and Moonlight

a Stephen Strange x OFC Romance

Chapter Eight

The Sanctum was quiet, and Stephen hadn’t thought to set his alarm—so he wasn’t surprised that he’d slept later than he had in…well, probably since medical school. No, that’s not quite right, he reminded himself; post-accident, they’d dosed him up for both pain and sleeplessness, but he had never awoken in the hospital feeling completely refreshed, as he had this morning. He’d battled depression, too, in those post-operative months, alternating between mourning his loss of purpose and angrily lashing out at the world for failing him where he just knew he would have succeeded in managing a cure enough so he could work again. He’d had plenty of days when he had slept twelve hours plus, feeling like there was no point in leaving his penthouse (growing emptier of furnishings week by week), let alone his bed. Discovering the world of the mystic arts had rejuvenated him, and he applied himself religiously to learning everything he could, soaking up knowledge and skills like the thirstiest of sponges—just as he had in his university days. Since the Ancient One’s passing, he seldom slept more than five or six hours a night; so much to do, so much to still master, a Sanctum to oversee—but it was a life that he loved. Even more fiercely than his life in medicine.

Moreover, he knew exactly why he’d slept so soundly. He had needed to, certainly—and his young Hadeethan Healer had given him an unexpected peace with her understanding and unconditional forgiveness, effortlessly reading his truest need. Astounding, especially considering the burden of grief she was carrying. The grief he was sole witness to. He needed to find her at once.

Stephen dressed quickly, anxious to see how Teyla was faring. He stopped by her room; the door was open, so that he could see that she had made her bed, but she was nowhere in sight. He hurried down two floors to the common room, just off the kitchen, where most of Sanctum occupants took their meals. Two of the Sanctum retainers were clearing away the breakfast things, but they paused to greet him; one asked if he would care for something to eat, and he politely declined.

“We have a guest staying with us for a few days,” he told them, eager to locate her, “A young woman from off-world—she’s been training at Kamar-Taj…”

One of the women was nodding in recognition, “Yes, Master Strange. Teyla, right?”

“Yes…you’ve seen her?” he asked, a sense of relief settling over him.

“She was here earlier. She had some tea and a little to eat. That was about…hmmm,” the retainer looked to her partner for confirmation, “About an hour ago.”

“Do you happen to know where she went?” Though Teyla was comfortable enough on the city streets the day before, Stephen would’ve preferred she wait for him before returning to her father’s loft.

The women consulted silently, before the second answered him, “She told us to tell you not to worry, Master Strange—and that she would not leave the Sanctum without your permission.”

“Oh.” Surprised, but secretly pleased that Teyla had anticipated his concerns, Stephen thanked them, and then turned to leave. Since she had to be somewhere in the building, a quick locator charm would make her easy to find.

He discovered her in the rooftop greenhouse, speaking with an Adept who was tending to the plants, herbs and greenery that were vital to spell work. The hothouse also contained a modest assortment of fruits and vegetables—grown year-round to help meet the dietary needs of the Sanctum residents—as well as a bee hive, situated at the far end near a section of flower beds. Teyla seemed very absorbed in the conversation, with the Adept explaining in detail the uses of the various florae.

Stephen approached them quietly, not wishing to interrupt until a convenient moment arose. The Adept—a young man named Dominic--noticed his arrival, and broke off his lesson in order to tender a respectful greeting to the Sanctum Master. Teyla immediately looked to Stephen. The moment was sunny, warm, bright—and though he knew that she still mourned, there was a light in her eyes which spoke her gladness that he was near.

“Teyla,” he said simply, a world of gratitude and affection compressed into two syllables. He felt his smile grow—nearly certain that he had to look like an utter goof—and she answered with a tilt of her head, and an endearing, bashful sort of smile. Stephen felt like he had stopped time, even though the Eye of Agamotto rested safely back in Kamar-Taj; his heightened awareness brought him the realization that something vital had changed between them. Though he was still Teyla’s teacher and mentor, he couldn’t help but think of her less as a student, and more as an equal…as a friend…as a soul who’d seen his past pain and ongoing insecurities and somehow…somehow understood. Without a need for words, without a call for explanations.

Amid those musings, he watched her eyes widen, and time began again–with Stephen well aware that she had read him once more. You’ve got to stop doing that, Teyla; some secrets need to be revealed slowly. He sent the thought her way, testing if she was actually reading his mind, or just his emotions. Her expression did not change, but she beckoned him closer, her voice echoing slightly in the confines of the greenhouse. "Are you well this morning, Doctor?” Her greeting was solicitous, her manner deferential.

"I am, Teyla. Very well, indeed,” he grinned, “I had the best sleep of any I’ve had in many years.” But you knew that already, didn’t you, my dear? You gave that gift to me.

"I hope you do not mind, Doctor Strange, but I was impatient to explore your domain," she informed him, "And Dominic has been kind enough to show me about the garden. I had not expected to find such a lovely refuge atop a city building."

"Hmm...I never really thought of it that way, but I suppose that's true." He came to stand beside her, dismissing the Adept with a small nod. Dominic moved off, continuing his inspection and care of the next section of plants.

Stephen leaned close, lowering his voice for privacy sake, "How are you today, Teyla? Was your sleep restful at all? And is there anything I can do for you?"

"I am..." Teyla sighed softly, "I am...acclimating...to my new reality--one without the love and wisdom of my father to guide me." Her voice broke, but she mastered her tears before they could claim the day, "But I carry him with me now, as never before--and I believe his spirit survives, merely in another form, so that someday I will look upon his face again."

"That's a lovely thought, Teyla," Stephen said, astonished at her resiliency, "It took me decades to discover that truth." She looked to him, breathing in his sincerity as a comfort and as a fortification, "That we are so much more than random bits of material in an indifferent universe. That thought has given me strength in even the most dire circumstances."

She bowed her head, whispering so that he barely heard her, "Even so, it shall for me."

He placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder, "You're not alone in this, honey. Whatever you need, you only have to ask. Even if it's just a shoulder to cry on."

Teyla raised her chin, her eyes focused on his. As soft as they were, Stephen also saw her resolve to move forward despite her sorrow. "thank you, Doctor Strange. You have been a true friend to me--and I will remain forever grateful."

He shrugged modestly, "You are very welcome, Teyla of Hadeeth. Though I think I owe you a larger show of gratitude..."

Her brow creased slightly, annd her eyes flitted from his to look past him, drawing his attention away. "Something is wrong," she murmured, tilting her head toward Dominic.

The Adept stood several feet away, hands on hips, closely scrutinizing a row of berry bushes. He shook his head, snorting in frustration, then headed towards the far corner of the hothouse. A row of weathered gardening tolls leaned against the glass, beside an old wheelbarrow. Dominic retrieved a spade, and then returned to the plant he had been examining. Curious, Stephen went to join him, with Teyla following right behind him.

Dominic motioned to the bush, and Stephen saw that the fruit was badly discolored. "That's some kind of fungus," he informed the Sanctum Master, "I’ll have to uproot it, or the rot will spread to the surrounding plants.”

“Is that really necessary?”

“I’m afraid so, Master Strange. This one won’t survive much longer,” the younger man pronounced, “Just look at the currants—they’re inedible. And they’d be useless as part of any potions or simples.”

“Well…if that’s our only option,” Stephen conceded, “No use wasting time.” He motioned for the young man to continue.

The Adept nodded, and turned to complete the chore. Teyla stepped forward and laid her hand upon the spade handle. “Wait but a moment please, Dominic. I believe I can work a cure upon this bush; I have seen similar sickness in fruit-bearing plants on my home world, and I may have a remedy.” She looked to Stephen, eager yet respectful, “If you would allow it, Doctor Strange. There is a Hadeethan spell that may be of some use here. I have worked it at least a dozen times.”

“You think it might work on an Earth plant?”

“We cannot know until I try--but I should act quickly, or the damage will be irreversible,” she urged him confidently.

Curious to see a practical application of Hadeethan magic--and remembering the surprising charm of the floating flower petals which Teyla had created for the youngsters of Kamar-Taj--Stephen stepped back, allowing her the space to work. She took several deep breaths, and then kneeled before the bush, exploring the leaves and berries with the lightest of touches. Gingerly, she cupped a cluster of the pink currants in hand, and bent her face close, breathing them in as though seeking their scent. She exhaled softly over them a few times, and Stephen was amazed to see their mottled pink and grey skin turn lavender for several seconds, before reverting to their sickly color. "Yes," she said quietly, addressing the plant itself, "I see the ill and I believe that I can remedy your distress."

Stephen glanced at Dominic, who appeared equally impressed with the plant’s response. “It’s probably worth a shot, Master Strange. Otherwise it’ll be a total loss.”

“Alright then,” Strange decided. “Teyla, please—do what you can.”

She nodded, grateful for his trust, and then turned her attention to the task before her. Teyla placed her hands palm to palm, as though in prayer, while resting her fingertips against her lips. She began to hum a simple run of notes, repeating it several times before stretching her hands over the leaves and berries, and gliding them in a circular pattern which grew wider with each pass. The circle became a figure eight, her hands confidently weaving to and fro as the notes she hummed rose in pitch and volume. A pale blue light began to emanate from the narrow space between her hands and the currant berries. Stephen noted that it was less vivid than the blue that had accompanied the fall of flower petals which she had conjured for the young Novices, but coupled with her music, he realized it was a form of magic far different than that practiced by the sorcerers of Earth—a magic unfamiliar to him, even with his many forays across the multiverse.

Beads of perspiration had broken out upon Teyla’s brow, yet her concentration remained unwavering. After several minutes of her sustained ministrations, her soothing melody rose in a crescendo, and then declined into silence, and the blue light pulsed several times before appearing to recede into the plant itself. Teyla breathed a heavy sigh as her hands fell to her sides, and her shoulders slumped enough that Stephen thought for a moment that she might collapse. “Teyla—are you alright.”

Her head bowed, she raised a hand, stopping him as he approached her. “A moment please, Doctor,” she responded, sounding as weak as she looked, “I need just a little more time to recover.”

Stephen drew closer, thinking to help her to her feet, and Teyla turned to him with tired eyes and an ashy pallor. She took his offered hand lightly—aware of the near constant pain that lived there—while advising him, “Sir, I will be myself again in short order. But look, and you will see that the blight has been eradicated.”

And indeed it was, for the currant berries already looked more wholesome, their dull, murky pink transformed to the appealing translucence of pink champagne, the leaves and stems grown to a healthier green—and remarkably, fresh tendrils were unfurling themselves along several branches.

“Incredible,” he murmured, gently helping Teyla to stand, encouraging her to lean against him as she began to recuperate. “It’s more than cured,” he observed, “The whole plant looks…rejuvenated. What is this magic, Teyla—and will you teach it to me?”

Despite her weakness, she laughed softly, “Are you so eager, Stephen Strange, to be a student once again?”

“Learning is a lifetime adventure, Teyla—that’s a truth I’ve been lucky enough to discover firsthand. I have never turned away the opportunity to learn something new. Never in medicine, and never in the mystic arts. But this,” he declared, incredulously, “This is a combination of the two.” He shook his head, imagining the things he might have accomplished as a doctor if he’d had such magic at his disposal. “When can we begin?”

“You flatter me, Stephen Strange, implying that I am fit to teach a Master any kind of magic.” Her tone was gentle indulgence, and it occurred to him that that she might be teasing him just a bit. “But if that is your will, I will try the best I can, providing you are patient. Ever patient,” she reiterated, “For the forests of Nalor did not spring to life in a mere cycle of the sister-moons.”

“And Rome wasn’t built in a day,” he chuckled, drawing a pretty smile from her. The color was returning to her cheeks, and she drew away from him, no longer needing to lean against him to remain upright. Stephen would’ve let her linger there beyond her immediate need to, but Teyla had already turned away, moving to rejoin Dominic in his rounds.

Curious to confirm the full success of Teyla’s cure, he plucked a few of the currants from the bush, and popped one into his mouth. It burst with bright, sweet flavor the moment he broke the skin, so that he quickly consumed the others--thinking they were among the sweetest berries he had tasted in his life.

Knowing that she would be well out of her depth dealing with the financial and legal matters left behind in her father’s wake, Teyla had asked Stephen to contact her father’s lawyers and the Columbia Art Department Chairman on her behalf, so that he had spent a couple hours consulting with them by phone. She also informed him that she felt strong enough to return to the loft unaccompanied; observing her carefully, he judged that she was ready enough to face whatever tasks lay ahead for her there—though he insisted she travel there via portal. Stephen felt doubly responsible for her now, and ensuring that she was only an easily conjured portal away, was the best compromise at hand.

After addressing a few vital Sanctum concerns, Stephen visited the kitchen to pack enough hot lunch for two (with the cook shooing him out of the way as she bustled about her mealtime preparations), and then used a portal to join Teyla at her father’s place. She greeted him warmly, though he could tell she had been crying once again—as he had known she would need to, choosing to do so in the privacy of her home away from home. They dined at the kitchen table, with Stephen telling her that she must eat the full plate of chicken and pasta with pesto, which he doled out for her, reminding her that she had barely eaten in the time since they had arrived in New York. Obediently, she made her way through the meal, while he filled her in on the details of the financial and living arrangements her father had provided for her.

That done, he turned the topic back to her little morning miracle in the Sanctum’s greenhouse—giving her a welcome distraction from the grief that lay beneath the surface waiting for a quiet moment to break fresh upon her heart.

“It is not a magic exclusive to Hadeeth,” she started, “Though rarely found—according to my teachers--it is practiced by at least a few dozen cultures across the multiverse. Its primary purpose is for healing, although you were witness to that minor charm I demonstrated for the young ones of Kamar-Taj.”

“That was a sweet little bit of magic, Teyla,” he reminded her.

She lowered her lashes demurely, genuinely flattered. “It is quite elementary, Doctor…”

“Stephen, please, Teyla,” he urged her, “After last night—how you helped me—we don’t need to be so formal now, do we?”

She raised her eyes to meet his, surprised but clearly pleased, “As you wish…Stephen.” Again, he found the familiarity of her use of his given name…quite pleasant…and the little smile that graced the corners of her mouth, gratifying. She nodded graciously, and then continued, “Such spell-making relies upon the practitioner to engage in what we call empathetic magic. To not only discern, but to feel the subject’s condition and needs, and to bond with them enough to experience it themselves--to some degree at least.”

Of course, Stephen realized, that’s what makes it a perfect magic for you. “But there must be a cost of sorts to that,” he surmised.

“Indeed,” she admitted, “But oh, Stephen, it is a beautiful price to pay, to be of such service to those in need.” For a heartbeat, Teyla nearly glowed with the joy of it.

“So break it down for me, Teyla. Tell me how to make a start.” Stephen patted her hand, then left his atop hers, enjoying the soothing warmth which was ever present when his scarred flesh came in contact with her skin. “Teach me. Please.”

She studied his face carefully, and nodded solemnly. “I will do my best, Stephen,” she promised him, “For I see your desire to learn is honest and true.”

“Now—as you surely know,” she began, “All life—from the lowliest insect to the most accomplished and powerful Master of the mystic arts…”

He grinned at that, appreciating the humor of her not so subtle reference.

“…all life possesses a unique energy. By attuning one’s own energy with that of the lifeform in need of healing, one can establish a harmonic resonance—a bond that enables a Healer to read exactly what injury or illness that lifeform suffers.”

“Harmonic resonance,” he repeated, making the connection, “The notes you hum?”

“Yes, in a large part, though there are other factors that bear upon the resonance as well.”

“And once you’ve established that bond, how are you able to heal the damage?” he challenged her, “How do you set things right?”

Patiently, she expounded, “Well, that is…hmmm…that is somewhat trickier to explain. Let us call it a temporary exchange of energy. And by this means, the Healer takes unto themselves a fraction of the damage…a shadow of the symptoms…an echo of the pain, where necessary.”

“That’s why you were weakened after you healed the currant bush?”

Teyla nodded, “Though as you witnessed, I did recover swiftly.”

“The side effects on the Healer—they’re only temporary?” Stephen considered how revolutionary introducing such magic into regular training at Kamar-Taj might be, where those with the aptitude could make a difference in the suffering of hundreds of lives in the same span of time in which medical professionals might only help dozens.

Teyla hesitated, cautious in reply, “Most often, yes; they are brief and rarely debilitating.”

“Which means there is a degree of risk?” He had wondered about the downside of the promise of miracle cures—knowing well enough that nothing in the mystic arts came without some cost.

“The relief we offer to those in need far outweighs that risk,” she insisted, a little defensively, “At least for me and my fellow practitioners.”

“Risk nevertheless,” he asserted, easily reading her—for once—and what she left unspoken. “In extreme cases, I’m betting you’d be putting your health and life on the line.”

Teyla nodded, “It is true. But the work that you do, Stephen…the work that you and your fellow sorcerers do…is already far from risk free.” She gave him that small, knowing smile—the one that told him she knew much more about him than she had ever dared to say aloud—and asked frankly, “Did you not lay down your life a thousand times over to protect and preserve this world, and every living soul upon it, from a most ancient, implacable malevolence?”

Stunned to have her mention it, Stephen’s mouth went dry. “How…how do you know this?” Was it something she had read in him—or something she’d been told about?

Her soft, brown eyes held infinite patience—and unabashed admiration. With a wisdom beyond her seeming years, she told him, “You may not speak of your ordeal at the hands of Dormammu, but the story is already legend in Kamar-Taj, and on worlds far flung from here. Yet you remain fully humble, even perplexed at times by the deference paid to by your peers…”

His mouth fell open, but he was speechless--transfixed by her gentle regard, and unable to muster his usual sort of blithe reply.

“…and even the lowliest student here holds you in high esteem for that great and painful sacrifice,” she concluded. “Truly, Stephen, would you now claim that the cost you paid was not worth what you accomplished?”

Stephen closed his eyes; he could not deny those facts, though he did his best to avoid the memories of that time, and all the pain that it entailed. The truth was he had made that choice with no compunction, never factoring in the price that he would have to pay. And given that choice again today, he would do the same in a heartbeat.

Teyla brushed her fingertips across his knuckles, knowing his answer without him speaking a word. “So you do understand, Stephen—why there is no question of choice. Your example is an inspiration to all those who study at Kamar-Taj. To those who have learned of your deed across the many dimensions.” She leaned nearer to him, her breath like a soft caress on his cheek, and his heart sped a little faster as he wondered if a third kiss was in the offing. Realizing that if it were, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from returning the favor.

Instead, she lowered her gaze, so that his heart lurched with disappointment—and she added shyly, “As you inspire me.”

He was silent a moment, a mix of emotions swirling through his thoughts--not the least of which was berating himself for wanting to kiss a very vulnerable young woman. Not the time or place; he told himself--and certainly the most inappropriate thought I could have, given her condition. Stephen shook his head, declaring adamantly, "I'm no hero, Teyla--please believe me. I am, in fact, the farthest thing in all the worlds from that."

She sat back, her eyes narrowed in such keen study of him that he felt his heart was laid bare. "As you say, Stephen. Though I perceive a destiny for you, in which your courage, brilliance, and selflessness will become the stuff of legends."

"Well in the meantime," he scoffed, feeling the heated blush of embarassment (and shame at his fleeting thought of kisses) color his neck and cheeks, "I'm just a man reaching through a fog of uncertainty, to try my best to do the right thing."

"Of course," she smiled, her faith in him unfaltering, "One day at a time, one deed at a time. Your destiny will find you whether you believe in it or not."

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