#supreme x the north face | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

marchtomydrums · 2 years

Text

The Witch Bitch From New York.

Cordelia Goode x Mina Venable x Reader

At the age of 13, you knew that Mina was different than most. You always knew she needed the cane to walk but didn’t exactly know why until one night your mothers explained it to you.

Mina was worried that you would see her as a monster like most people do but you couldn’t. You could never look at her that way. She was your mother after all. Not many of the other girls at the academy knew about Mina’s condition and while some did they didn’t dare speak about it.

Walking into your next class you sit down waiting for Myrtle to begin. Zoe sits to your right while Madison is on your left. While you and Madison didn’t always get along she always had your back and vice versa. The three of you grew up together in the academy and your bond was strong.

Behind you was a group of newer witches. They were a couple of years older than you and arrived a couple of months ago. Maci was a redhead from North Carolina she was all bark but no bite. Emily was from Ohio and she had long brown hair and was dumber than rocks. They were Heather’s lapdogs as Madison called them. Heather was from New York City and she made sure everyone knew it. She had long blonde hair and sea blue eyes your typical mean girl. She was very popular at her old school and her parents had more money than god. Heather was just a bitch plain and simple. You tried to stay away from them as much as possible because your mother would never forgive you if you set one of them on fire.

As you waited for class to begin you could hear them gossiping behind you.

“Did y’all hear apparently our dear supreme is a dyke.” Maci says.

The other two girls gasp in fake surprise.

“Yeah, I heard her type in women was Halloween,” Maci adds with a chuckle.

You griped your notebook tight as you tried to ignore them.

Zoe is quick to grab your hand offering you a smile.

“They aren’t worth it.” She whispered.

“Ohh y/n..” Heather calls out. You turn in your seat facing her.

“Is it true Mina is a freak of nature?” She asked.

“Hey!” Madison yells turning in her seat.

“Back off bitch.” She yells in Heather’s direction.

“Or what?”

“Or I’ll beat your ass you trophy wife in training,” Madison smirks.

Heather chuckles as she returns her gaze to you.

“I heard Mina is like Frankenstein and she has a few pieces sewed together like an art project. Is that true?”

“Fuck you, Heather!” You yelled at the blonde.

“Awe poor y/n it’s got to suck being the daughter of Frankenstein and a dyke. Do you have to help her oil her parts or is that Cordelia’s job?” She asked with a chuckle.

The next thing you knew you were across the table knocking her to the ground as you land punch after punch to her face. The class gasped as they watched.

“Yess! Beat her ass!” Madison cheers.

“Girls! Girls!” Myrtle screams as she pulls you off of Heather.

“That’s enough! Both of you go to Cordelia’s office. Now!” She screams pointing down the hallway.

You growled as Heather walks by holding her bloody nose.

“Looks like daddy’s going to have to buy you a new nose.” Madison chuckled giving her a small pout.

“Madison!” Myrtle warns.

———————————————————————————

You’ve been waiting outside Cordelia’s office for the last hour. She’s spoken to Heather, Myrtle, and all of the other girls in the class. Heather insisted on calling her parents so Cordelia had to speak with them as well. Finally, the door opens as she allows Heather to exit the office.

The girl smirks as she walks past you. You glared in her direction.

“Y/n!” Your mother calls out to you. You sighed making your way into the office seeing Mina sitting in the chair across from Cordelia’s desk.

Cordelia sits in her chair shaking her head as she looks at you.

“What do you have to say for yourself?”

“She deserved it.” You grumbled.

“Y/n,” Mina warns.

“Well, she did! She is a grade A bitch and she’s always saying nasty things about both of you! She and her lap dogs called you both dykes and called momma Frankenstein! I tried I really did but that was the last straw so yeah I beat her ass. If you want to punish me do it! I don’t care but if she does it again I will beat her ass again. Hell, she’s lucky all I did was hit her because I could have dropped a house on that bitch!” You yelled as you dramatically threw yourself down in the chair next to Mina.

Mina couldn’t help the chuckle that escapes while Cordelia ducks her head so you can’t see her smile.

“Nonetheless you can’t be violent towards the other girls.” Cordelia finally says once she’s collected herself.

“If it means protecting the two of you I will do whatever is necessary. Ask Madison and Zoe she had it coming.”

“That may be my love but the fact of the matter is you broke her nose and bruised both her eyes. I can’t allow that type of behavior even if you are my daughter. So because of that you and Heather will both be punished.”

“Fine.” You mumbled.

“Now as your supreme I am very disappointed but as your mother, I am extremely proud of you.” She says with a smile.

You looked up at her in shock.

“You are?”

She nods.

“Little one,” Mina calls out to you.

“Thank you for being so protective of me. I know it’s hard when the girls talk about things they don’t understand. And while I appreciate your protectiveness can we not go around punching people or dropping houses on them.” She adds with a smile.

You chuckled. “Yes ma’am. I’m sorry. She just made me so angry.”

“I understand. But you don’t always have to protect me little one. I can do it myself.”

“But you're my mom. I want to protect you…both of you. You two are the best mothers I could possibly ask for and it upsets me when others talk badly about you. And I know how you feel about your back and I don’t want anyone to make you feel less than what you are.”

Mina chuckles as tears roll down her cheeks. “Come here, baby.” She says softly as you sit in her lap.

“There will always be people who say mean things, especially about me. However, their opinions don’t matter. The only people I worry about are you and your mother. Okay? You don’t have to protect me all the time. While I am thankful you love me so fiercely I can’t allow you to put yourself in harm's way because of it. So no more. If something is said you come and talk to us. Do you understand me?”

“Yes ma’am.” You sighed. She smiles hugging you tightly.

“I love You.” She says as she kisses your forehead.

“I love you too Momma. And I’m sorry.” You whispered. She nods her head.

Cordelia clears her throat gaining your attention. You smiled as she sends you a wink. Getting up from Mina’s lap you walk around the desk to sit on Cordelia’s.

“My sweet, protective girl I love you so much. And believe me, I know how hard it is to listen to people talk about your Momma. But we must learn to compose ourselves. And because of that you and Heather both will have extra chores for a month and you’re to help Misty with the littles as well.”

“Yes ma’am.” You whispered.

She smiles kissing your cheek softly.

“I love you, sweet girl.”

“I love you too.”

#cordelia goode x reader #ahs coven #ahs apocalypse #lgbtq #wlw #writing #mother/daughter relationship #madison montgomery #zoe benson #myrtle snow #wilhemina venable

103 notes · View notes

norabrice1701 · 6 months

Text

Twist My Heart - Ch. 2

Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw x Jake “Hangman” Seresin

- A TG:M Twister AU -

Series Main List

Also on AO3

Ch. 2 Warnings: Language; discussion of canon character death; tornado chasing drama

Even with guaranteed nationwide wi-fi service, the rural counties still prove a constant challenge. Squinting against hazy sunlight that shafts through the windshield, Bradley stares at the progress bar on his laptop, willing the radar image to update. The supercell to the south has finally started to display favorable indications for a hook echo… but then his internet connection blipped.

He sighs, resting back against the passenger seat headrest as the image continues to load. His eyes drift closed but the release of a semitruck’s air brakes jar his attention. The midday beehive activity of gas stations make them Bradley’s least favorite place to wait out oncoming storms, but their SUV did need refueling.

Another disappointing glance at his computer screen confirms the ongoing wi-fi struggle, and he looks out the windshield instead. His gaze lands immediately on Hangman’s swaggering form, impossible to miss as he exits the convenience store. A plastic bag swings next to his legs clad in casually well-fitting jeans and his Dagger Labs polo shirt highlights the strong build of his chest. Sunglasses shield his eyes and complement all the attractive angles of his face beneath his stylish blonde hair. He passes a woman who offers him a bashful smile, and he dials his answering grin up to full brilliance. It brings out the dimples that never fail to lend him an air of boyish charm, and… fuck.

“Where the fuck are we?” Fanboy’s voice sounded over the CB radio with distinct displeasure. “Come on, Bob.”

“You’re on County Road 31 - or should be, at least. Half a mile out, Dagger 3.” Bob responded with calm ease.

“Tornado is on the ground!” Payback hollered, his excitement palpable through the radio static. “It’s going about 35 mph. North-northeast.”

Bradley’s heart jumped in his chest as he pressed harder on the gas pedal. Just over the low hill ahead, he watched the black, angry funnel taking violent shape, and the sight made his blood rush.

Hangman popped the lens cover off his camera in the passenger seat. “Don’t get too close, now. You’ll ruin the shot.”

“Heaven forbid I come between you and your art.”

“Damn straight.”

Bradley turned to cast a passing glance out the passenger window, just able to make out the flashing yellow lights of Dagger 2 approaching from the west. His smile widened as the Dagger Labs team continued to move into position, each fulfilling their field assignments, and Bradley turned his gaze back out out the front windshield. Over the roar of wind and the blaring team radio calls, he heeded the sat nav directions and cranked the wheel on the next road towards Bob’s tracking coordinates.

“Oh, man,” Fanboy chuckled with raw wonder. “We have an EF2, possibly EF3 with a very large rope on the ground!”

“Shear is 90 knots. Rotation increasing.” Nat reported, all business and calm coolness. “50 outbound, 40 inbound.”

Bradley’s smile grew as the digital shutter on Hangman’s camera started clicking away. It was an artform that Bradley never understood, but Hangman always found a way to capture breathtaking images no matter how fast Bradley drove.

“Axis has gone vertical!” Fanboy whooped with joy. “This sucker’s really gaining strength and we’re getting into prime position!”

The promise of victory - of good data capture - rushed a thrill through Bradley as he made the next turn onto a dirt road, tracking the twister’s visual progress relative to the target coordinates. He lived for these moments - with his hair on fire and adrenaline electrifying his senses as the power of mother nature reigned supreme, ripe for scientific exploration.

The SUV bounced over the uneven, rutted road jarring them both in their seats. Hangman glared over, bracing one hand against the dashboard and trying to steady his camera with the other. “Where the fuck did you turn?”

“Where’s Bob’s directions said…”

Hangman turned his gaze out the window suspiciously, staring down at the ground as they jounced. “Are you sure this even qualifies as a road?”

“It’s got to be.” Bradley answered as he fought the wheel to keep the SUV moving forward in a steady, straight line. “It's probably called something like… ‘Bob’s Road’.”

Hangman barked a sharp laugh that carried a genuine note of amusement as he looked over at Bradley. His cheeks held the flush of excitement and his eyes shone with bright energy as he shot Bradley a smile. “I’ll be sure to tell him that.”

Bradley glanced over, blood singing in his veins as the perfect beauty of the moment took his breath away.

Bradley sighs again, pushing the memory aside and hoping to expel more than one type of frustration as he looks back at his computer. The driver door opens, ushering in a gust of gasoline fumes and dust as Hangman retakes his seat. Bradley stays content to ignore him, focusing instead on the progress bar of his radar update. At least until a bag of sour gummy worms lands on his laptop keys.

He’s long stopped being flattered when his coworkers - especially Hangman - remember his snack preferences. It comes with the territory after so many years on the road together.

“I keep thinking that one day you’ll outgrow those, you know.” Hangman’s words deform around the corner of a plastic wrapper clenched between his teeth as he tears it open. “Or do you actually like getting cavities? Or diabetes much?”

Bradley rips the bag open as he glances over at Hangman. The blonde gnaws a bite of beef jerky, and Bradly just arches an incredulous brow before speaking. “And what about you? Hypertension much? Colon cancer?”

The corner of Hangman’s mouth lifts as he waves the snack for emphasis. “At least this has protein in it. Something redeeming.”

There’s plenty redeeming in the gummy candy's sweet and sour flavors that burst on Bradley's tongue, but they're none of Hangman’s business. He doesn’t need to know how they were Goose’s favorite. How Bradley could always find a bag stashed in his desk – sometimes half-eaten, sometimes stale, sometimes unopened – and his dad would always let him have some, even if it was before dinner. He offers a shrug as he pulls more gummy worms out of the bag. “Vice of choice.”

Hangman chuckles. “And you’re how old? 10?”

“Beer’s a close second.”

“Really livin’ on the edge there, Roo.” Hangman deadpans, words distorted as he chews another bite of jerky.

Bradley blinks down at the radar image that’s nearly uploaded before turning back towards Hangman. His elbow rests on the window ledge and the visible swell of muscle has no right to be so appealing. Bradley’s no slouch in the gym, either - the job demands a certain physicality - but something about Hangman’s has always made Bradley’s heart race. “What’s yours, then?” He asks, licking stray sugar from his lips. “What vice makes you so high and mighty?”

A shit-eating grin grows on Hangman’s face. “Now what’s the fun in just telling you?”

Bradley shakes his head, swallowing a wave of irritation. “You don’t have to tell me - I can only assume there’s a reason Coyote has lots of tequila stories about you.” And they absolutely, resolutely don’t make Bradley jealous. Not the stories themselves, but Coyote and Hangman’s relationship going back so many years before working together at Dagger Labs. He still doesn't know how or why Mav hired them both - or if they came as a package deal - but they’ve only helped add to Dagger Labs’ prestigious reputation.

“Stories are just that,” Hangman answers, clearly unimpressed. “Easy to fabricate and easy to exaggerate.”

He can’t resist arching a teasing brow. “Oh, I’m sure Coyote has photos, though. No self-respecting friend wouldn’t want that sort of embarrassing fodder for a 40th birthday or wedding rehearsal dinner show’n tell.”

Disgusted disbelief wrinkles Hangman’s face. “If that’s your idea of what being a friend means, Bradshaw, then count me out.”

“Well, then," he says, hoping his voice isn't suddenly too tight. "Good thing we’re just coworkers.”

A silence falls in the SUV, broken only by their quiet chewing and the muffled sounds of the gas station around them. The plastic wrapper of the jerky stick crinkles as Hangman polishes off the last bite. “How’s Doppler looking?”

At least the weather forecast information has finally refreshed. Bradley swipes his finger over the touchscreen. “Looks like that cell south of us has dropped in intensity. Not likely to spawn anything now.”

“I never hung my hat on that system, anyway.” Hangman says, almost bored. “Not enough stability for the upper wind rotations to form.”

Bradley doesn’t quite roll his eyes. “You never even saw the data, man.”

“Didn’t need to.” He shoots an adoring look at Bradley over the top of his shades. “Not when you use your words so well, saying such pretty things.”

Bradley just shakes his head, refusing to look over and hoping that Hangman doesn’t see the tightening muscles of his jaw. In these moments, he hates that he doesn’t have the same instincts. That he’s more data dependent, more prone to think than to act. While it hasn’t failed him yet - in fact, it’s saved his ass on more than one occasion - even Mav has told him that he needs to not think quite so much.

Maybe he just comes by it too honestly.

He takes a last mouthful of gummy worms and rolls up the bag, stuffing it into the glove box. With another scan of the forecast data, he glances down at the notebook resting next to the center console and picks it up. If there’s one surefire way to get Hangman to shut up, this is it.

Nibbling his bottom lip, he starts inking out representative lines for each letter of the word that he's chosen. No matter how many times he’s played Hangman with… well, Hangman, it never fails to transport him back to his grade school days despite the mobile lab equipment around him.

Hangman chuckles softly as he watches Bradley sketch out a scaffold. “You didn’t even ask me if I wanted to play.”

“Well, I’m done listening to you talk, and you can do what you do best.”

“Impress you?”

“Win.” Bradley states it like the fact that it is. It’s long stopped being a competition, but Bradley refuses to admit that Hangman’s mastery of the game does impress him. He glances up at Hangman and holds the notebook out for him to study.

__ __ __ __ __ __ __ __

A toothpick materializes in the corner of Hangman’s mouth, another of his many talents. “You’re missing the category hint.”

Bradley mentally kicks himself. He should have remembered that but like hell will he admit it. “That’s not a firm rule, is it?”

Hangman cuts him with a sly gaze over his sunglasses. “Of course it is. Stop trying to cheat.”

The corner of his mouth lifts without permission. “Alright - category is ‘thing’.”

Hangman’s eyes fix on the notebook. “‘T’.”

Bradley scratches the pen on the page, filling in the blank.

__ __ __ __ T __ __ __

Hangman’s tongue darts out to tease the toothpick as he cocks his head. “A risk, but one I think’ll pay off – ‘C’.”

Bradley tries to hide his disappointment as he writes out the letter.

__ __ C __ T __ __ __

A triumphant smile brightens Hangman’s face. “You really picked ‘vacation’ as the word? Come on, at least make it a challenge!”

Bradley’s mouth gapes open before he can stop it, staring at the page. “How in the hell? There’s nothing obvious about that!”

“A master never reveals his secrets.” Hangman plucks the toothpick and points it towards the notebook. “Come on, write it out – prove me right.”

With gentle scoff, Bradley shakes his head and moves the pen over the paper.

V A C A T I O N

Despite the fact that Hangman is called Hangman for this exact reason, despite the fact that Bradley has seen Hangman do this countless times, and despite the fact that he’ll never stump Hangman at his own game, it still stirs the competitive part of him. Bradley stares at the blank page for the space of a breath as he tries to summon something clever. Something unusual, something harder - something with two words.

Carrier pigeon.

Liking his odds, he inks out lines for the thirteen letters. “Two words, this time,” he clarifies, glancing back at Hangman and holding out the notebook. “Still category ‘thing’.”

Hangman huffs a breathy laugh, scanning around the gas station parking lot before turning his attention back down to the page. “Okay, let’s start with ‘R’.”

Bradley writes out the three R’s on the page and holds his face neutral. Hangman brings the toothpick back to his mouth, rolling the wooden stick between his lips. A grin of recognition starts creeping across his face. “Let’s see if I got it – N.”

With sinking dread and absolute bafflement, Bradley writes the offending letter in the last blank.

Hangman smiles in victory with that damnably obnoxious toothpick pinched between too many teeth. “Carrier pigeon.”

“There’s no… no fucking way.” Bradley shakes his head in disbelief, motioning at the notebook. “There’s just… there’s nothing there…”

“Just because you don’t know the strategy doesn’t mean that there isn’t one.”

Bradley writes out the solution just because he can with another incredulous shake of his head. “Were you a spelling bee whiz kid in school? You must have been, to be so good at this now.”

Hangman’s nose wrinkles in disgust. “God, no. That’s a whole other level of teacher’s pet brown-nosing, do-gooding.”

Truthfully, Bradley can’t ever imagine a young Jake Seresin standing on some stage with a first-place spelling bee ribbon, but it’s something he’s always wondered about. How did the man get so freakishly good at this game?

Hangman’s eyes meet his even behind the sunglasses, and he misses none of the contemplation happening behind Bradley’s eyes. His brows pinch together with piqued interest. “Wait…” Hangman says slowly, plucking the toothpick from his lips. “Does that mean that you… oh, god, you’re one of them, aren’t you?”

“What?” Bradley’s face screws with disbelief. “No - I don’t even remember ever participating in a spelling bee.” Quickly, he tries to think of something else to hide the trajectory of his thoughts. “No, I… I was just thinking about the origin of the name ‘spelling bee’.”

“You mean it’s not named after some bee who’s good at spelling?” Hangman’s trademark teasing grin sounds in his voice.

Bradley ignores his stupidly obvious joke. “’Bee’ used to be the common term for a communal gathering – like a quilting bee or an apple bee.”

Silence falls for a beat before Hangman cocks his head in curious thought. “So, then… by that logic, is that seriously how the restaurant chain got its name?”

The image of Applebee’s Bar & Grill logo flashes in Bradley’s mind. His brows furrow as he shakes his head. “Well, it… you know, I have no idea.”

“Dagger 1, come in.” Nat’s voice sounds over the SUV speakers and anticipation bursts in Bradley’s chest. He reaches to unmute the team voice chat.

“Copy that, Dagger 2.” A smile lifts the corner of his mouth. “Good to hear from you, Phoenix.”

“Figured someone might need to give you two a break by now.”

Hangman scoffs indignantly. “Ye of little faith, Phoenix. Things were just starting to get good.”

“A twenty says you’re wrong.”

Bradley knows better than to take that bet against Natasha Trace. “Whatcha got?”

“Major action,” Bob’s voice comes over the speakers. “The cap is breaking. Tower’s going up 30 miles up the dry line.”

Bradley’s heart leaps in his chest. Nothing else has even come close today. “Where are you?”

“Near Burns Flat.”

He reaches for his seatbelt on instinct, hearing Hangman’s also click into place. “And that’s where? North? South?”

Nat’s voice sounds again. “Bob’s already sent you GPS coordinates.”

Hangman’s smile widens as the SUV engine roars to life. “That shit gets me hard, Bob.”

Bradley stares up at the speakers in the ceiling as if seeking forgiveness. “What he means is thank you and we’re on our way. We’ll catch you on CB when we get within range.”

“Copy that.”

The chat line mutes as Hangman shifts the SUV into gear, not quite peeling out of the parking space but coming pretty damn close. Bradley jostles in his seat, pulling up the vehicle's sat nav and Bob's coordinates. He arches a disapproving brow over at Hangman as they leave the gas station behind. “No call to be so crude.”

Hangman doesn’t glance over, focused on the road ahead. “And no call for you to be such a prude.”

“Not a prude.” Bradley corrects as he pulls up the latest data. “Just not rude. Especially when you know it makes Bob uncomfortable.”

“He’ll never grow if he’s not pushed outside of his comfort zone, dear.” Hangman sing-songs with a mocking edge. “Though that sounds like someone else we both know, doesn’t it?”

The barb digs under Bradley’s skin but he pushes it aside. Glancing at the sat nav directions to confirm distance to target, he glances up at the darkening sky. “Just drive or we’ll miss it entirely.”

Series Main List

Tag List: @redfurrycat

#jake seresin #jake hangman seresin #bradley rooster bradshaw #bradley bradshaw #hangster #bradley bradshaw x jake seresin #hangman x rooster #top gun maverick #top gun maverick au #top gun fanfiction #twister au #twister 1996 #glen powell #miles teller

17 notes · View notes

sobeautifullyobsessed · 2 years

Text

Defender Strange - 'greeting the sunrise' part one

a Defender Strange x Female Reader fic [continued from]

summary: a sweet & unexpected friendship flourishes between the Sorcerer Supreme and a Sorceress in training at Kamar-Taj characters: Defender Strange, Sorceress Female Reader/Y/N genre: friendship, pining rating: general audience word count: 3.4k author's note: If you've been following this story, this installment may confuse you; it's part three of four (so far) and one I hadn't planned until I decided to post it all on AO3. As a result, you may already have read the events of part four (some smutty goodness). All I can ask, is please bear with me, as I plan to continue once both parts of 'greeting the sunrise' are posted. Thank you for reading!

You tossed and turned on your narrow bed, restless as your mind replayed the events of the evening, irritated that the oblivion of sleep continued to elude you. Doubting how much longer you could maintain your assertion that you saw Stephen as merely a friend; you had nearly given yourself away a number of times tonight and your sensible self was busy insisting it was time to cut and run before he recognized how hopelessly you were carrying a torch for him. Surely you could request a transfer to one of the Sanctums, so that you didn’t have to walk away from this new life, which you adored. New York would be best--especially because as Sorcerer Supreme, Stephen’s central place remained in Kamar-Taj--but you’d gladly embrace London or Hong Kong if they allowed you the necessary space away from him…and the foolishness you couldn’t escape as long as he was near.

You flipped onto your back, sighing hard, then softening as your mind replayed that beautiful moment again and again. The fleeting brush of his lips upon your fingertips—even now, just the memory made them tingle pleasantly, while recalling the gentle husk of his humble entreaty roused a warmth in your chest, filled with love and hope and longing. The longing you had already learned to live with; it was part of you now, in every waking breath you drew. The hope, though…you couldn’t afford to hope. The world you both inhabited dictated it would only be a of waste of energy, detracting from your focus on mission.

You needed to sleep; it was already nearly midnight, and you would need to be up with the dawn to ready yourself for one final training session on harnessing sufficient energy to create eldritch weaponry, before the Master of that discipline put you to the test. But all you could think of was Stephen. How, invariably, at the end of the day, stray hairs would fall from the binding of his ponytail, to lay soft against the warm, precious skin of his neck and frame his handsome face--both inviting your fingers to sweep them aside, though you would never be that bold. Of the handful of times you had caught him watching you, wearing a soft, unguarded expression; soft, so soft, as though his thoughts were also soft, sparking in you for a moment, the expectation he had soft feelings to confess. Your cheeks would fill with a telltale flame, so that you had to turn away before he realized your face had colored for him.

And his eyes, whether the pale crystal blue they appeared in sunlight, vivid blue by torchlight and firelight, or so dark in low light as his pupils went full and left only rims of their mutable blue-green—were as twin North Stars to you. Stars you would gladly trust to guide you if you ever lost you way or foundered in the shadow of mystic challenges you had yet to face. When you looked in Stephen’s eyes and let your eyes linger while allowing yourself to feel what was forbidden, for those brief seconds it seemed he recognized your truth and somehow felt the same way too.

Though you lost track of how long you lay in unwilling contemplation of the man who unwittingly owned your heart, sleep came eventually, once you found your wits and laid your arms at your sides to call upon the practice of your order, breathing deeply and steadily, relaxing to your three-syllable mantra. One you could never share with a single soul. Stephen’s eyes.

_____________________________________________

Little could you know that in his quarters across the compound, sleep confounded Stephen as well.

Successful personal relationships had eluded him his whole adult life. Since his years at Columbia, through post-grad and internship and residency, he’d been far too single-minded in his pursuit of excellence--in his drive to be the best in his chosen field—to be capable of forming true and lasting friendships. Let alone caring about his growing isolation. Stephen’s quest had monopolized his energy and caused him to sublimate his emotional needs. And worst of all, had forced him to abandon a part of himself that might have grown him into a different sort of man. For he had forgotten the romantic that lived quietly in the corner of his heart.

Despite the cold, harsh, sardonic treatment he’d suffered as Eugene Strange’s firstborn son, his mother Beverly had provided a soft, kind, and loving counterpoint. Her piano lessons opened a new world to her brilliant boy’s precisely mathematical mind. These weren’t just notes on paper—she taught him that they lived and breathed and were meant to express the wide range of human emotion and experience. Stephen had embraced her view wholeheartedly, eventually surpassing his mother’s skill and leaving him to crave for ever more, like Beverly’s little backyard flower garden thirsted for merciful rain in the cruel grip of a high, dry Nebraska summer. While a sixth-grade crush on a winsome English teacher got him reading well-above grade level, in search of the sort of romantic literature that Stephen believed might win her heart (and left him devastated when she returned to school after summer vacation a newly made Mrs. Baxter nee Williams).

Come freshman year of high school, Stephen had insisted on taking Latin, despite parental protests and the incredulous reactions of his boyhood friends. He’d had an inkling that mastering that ancient tongue might come in handy, and not too far in the future—he had felt a pull in two directions: medicine or medical research, and a career involving the language arts. Having developed an unforeseen love for the study of languages, along with their origins and idiosyncrasies—and having discovered he had such an aptitude (along with the stunning realization that he had a humble talent for writing poetry, upon having penned a handful of poems as a means of wooing a couple of girls that he’d fallen for)—Stephen had seriously considered a future in the study and teaching of Classical Literature.

Though medicine eventually asserted itself as his future vocation, Stephen had parlayed that Latin into learning most of the Romance languages by the close of his junior year and had remained well in touch with the roots of his surprising and deeply imbedded romantic nature. But in the late summer before he was set to depart for a full ride at Columbia University, those idealistic, creative qualities had gone into a deep, dark, numb sleep after he had failed his sister Donna. At the cost of her life. That was when he had turned his back on the useless dreams and puerile fantasies of a Romantic.

Having been unable to save Donna from drowning to death, Stephen’s goal ultimately became expunging away the guilt he felt over it, which lived in every cell of his body. He had never defined his mission as such but had carried it with him into every operating theatre in which he worked his miracles; it lay silently beneath the words of every journal article he authored and every speech he gave. It was the invisible wall that perpetually separated him from true satisfaction. From feeling he at last had done enough.

After that, Stephen rarely allowed himself to grow close to anyone, refusing to name his fear of loss and the attendant vulnerability as a weakness. If he didn’t commit…if he didn’t allow himself to care too deeply…he wouldn’t need to manage the pain when they inevitably left him. Oh, he had college buddies alright, but none with whom he would stay up into the wee hours of the night, half drunk on cheap, warm beer, discussing philosophical questions, fully drunk on the hopes of a brilliantly managed future—or debating which coed was the finest lay on campus.

Yes, he had played the field. With his easy charm and remarkable physical grace and good looks, Stephen rarely got a ‘no’ when he approached a pretty girl to get to know her better. Few of those liaisons ever lasted long enough to be called relationships, and that left him free of encumberment as he reached for each rung on the ladder of his success. Christine Palmer—on again, off again, strong-willed, smart as a whip, able to appreciate and top his oft corny humor, soft-hearted and kind, patient beyond any woman he’d ever known—was the one exception to that rule. And because of his fear—and his growing arrogance amidst his meteoric rise to become the preeminent neurosurgeon in the country—he had hurt her shamelessly numerous times and finally lost the best and most tolerant soul when it came to his incalculable flaws. In Stephen’s mind, the idea of finding someone new to love and be loved back despite his selfish nature, was hopeless indeed.

And yet slowly but surely he had found someone he could love. Someone that already felt like home, as each day you showed him the sort of care and understanding that he had accepted years ago was never meant for him. Stephen’s affection had grown from pleasant anticipation for the evening teas you shared when he wasn’t off on a mission, to a quiet ache in the center of his chest when he had to miss that nightly ritual. An ache that had grown more constant and more keen of late, ushering him to sleep each night, greeting him upon awakening, waiting to remind him in those rare moments when he wasn’t fully focused on his duties, that it remained. He felt it even in your presence now, tempered with the sweetness that came with recognizing that—against all expectations—he was already in love. Along with the strengthening belief that you felt the same for him.

But what joy could he take in this? Stephen could long with his whole soul to make you his, silently cherish everything that made him love you, but the fact remained: his life was not his own to lead as pleased him. As Sorcerer Supreme, his duty to humanity was sacrosanct; for the sake of mankind, he must always be ready to make the toughest choices and most painful sacrifices, even unto that of laying down his life. There could be no room for a pursuit of personal happiness in that simple equation. And what woman should have to settle for never being her man’s top priority—and living with the constant shadow that the day might come when he wouldn’t return to her, by virtue of a higher commitment?

Besides, he was your superior and his feelings for you had to be out of bounds. Nothing in the books, scrolls, and secretly inscribed relics that had come to Stephen when he assumed that auspicious mantle, indicated he was excluded from the commonsense rules about romantic relationships, let alone close friendships, with those under his command. He couldn’t allow himself to be compromised. Stephen knew that he should nip these feelings in the bud before they flourished into something he could no longer resist.

As Sorcerer Supreme he should put distance between you and himself by assigning you duty at a safe distance from Kamar-Taj. Given enough time, such a separation might serve to lay to rest his tender feelings for you. He could even tell himself that forcing you away was to keep you from harm. And some nights he would even resolve to take this course of action—until you ended up crossing his path come day, either near at hand or from across the compound, and then came that beautiful ache reminding him that he was more than his title and his mission, driving home the truth: no matter the consequences, he couldn’t bear the thought of sending you away.

_____________________________________________

And thus, Time held its sway and the seasons transitioned quietly from late spring to high summer, while your feelings only deepened. You and Stephen grew to know each other even better, and even in the silences of time spent together, there lived an ease and sense of compatibility that you were sure would be noticeable to anyone seeing the two of you together. If you would’ve had the courage to speak of it aloud, Stephen might have told you that Wong (his closest friend and right-hand man in all matters of the Mystic Arts) had made a share of comments—not questioning, just merely observing—regarding the nature of the friendship he witnessed flourishing between the Sorcerer Supreme and a Sorceress still in training. Advising his superior and fellow Master to be cautious enough, as he proceeded, to avoid any appearance of favoritism—while remaining silent on his opinion that the two of you appeared to be a good match. Even a beneficial one for Stephen’s emotional health.

Come summers end you would be facing a series of tests that would determine if you were fit and ready to earn the rank of Master. Though you would never ask for his help to prepare, Stephen read the signs of your fraying nerves and your mounting fear of failure easily, from having experienced the same himself. He remained patient when you would suddenly turn skittish if the topic of your readiness arose and didn’t offer a word of disappointment when you had to call your time with him short in order to practice and study. If you had asked for help, he would’ve agreed in a heartbeat, regardless of appearances. And all the while, you both became scrupulously careful about any physical contact—as though the sweet interlude on the evening of the spilled tea had become a line neither dared to cross, out of the knowledge that once you did, there would be no stopping until your secret, mutual longing found its ultimate satisfaction.

This particular evening, Stephen arrived late for your teatime, having only returned from a far-flung mission an hour before. Not even stopping to eat (reckoning you would be sure to provide a snack of sorts with the tea), he had quickly showered, fixed his hair, and trimmed his goatee, not wishing to come to you battle singed and reeking of his efforts. Not just to keep you from worrying for his sake, but mainly because he now aimed to always appear his best in your presence. It had been years since he’d cared about such a thing, for his long familiarity with Christine Palmer had eventually worn that caution away.

He found you pacing back and forth across the veranda, head bowed over your clasped hands as you murmured words too quiet for him to make out—so focused on running through the litany of spells you would be tested on in two days’ time, that when he spoke your name, you gave a little start.

“Hey…hey there, Y/N,” he coaxed softly, “Didn’t mean to startle you. What’s up?”

You looked up at him, smiling faintly, though the low-grade panic in your eyes was enough to tell him what he needed to know. “Sorry,” you started, “I’m kind of distracted tonight. Maybe…maybe I should go…”

“Oh.” Stephen allowed his genuine disappointment to color his voice—quickly discerning the source of your distraction. Sure in the knowledge that he could—and as your friend, should--provide a diversion enough to calm your nerves. “If you really need to, yeah, of course you should. But, uh…maybe stick around a little while first? I just need to unwind some…this last mission almost went south because of clashing egos among the Defenders, and I had to play tough guy referee.” He called upon his most pleading, puppy dog eyes, “I find comfort in your company, Y/N. I have from the start. A little bit of that would go a long way to helping me find my balance tonight. Know what I mean?”

You gave a little shrug and your smile grew soft and pleased and pretty. “Well, how can I refuse to give the Sorcerer Supreme my assistance if it’s in my power?” When you took to your accustomed seat and began to pour out, Stephen followed suit, accepting the cup you offered, along with your query, “So…would you like to talk about it?”

He took a sip, humming appreciatively at the perfect balance of tea and honey you’d provided. “For now, not so much. Maybe you could just distract me. Fill me in on what you’ve been doing the past few days—how your prep for testing is going. And if there’s any good gossip going ‘round,” he chuckled, flashing you a wink, “I’d like a thorough update.”

Bright humor filled your eyes, and with it an understanding that his request was meant to relax you when you were in need of exactly that. You leaned a bit closer to him as you set down your cup—and Stephen had to restrain the urge to mirror you. To lean in the rest of the way and cradle your beckoning cheek and finally, finally taste your lips, after the countless fantasies of doing so, every time you got close to him now. He knew the time was coming soon when his resolve would fail, and he could only pray that when it did, you would welcome it as the sweet, long-awaited trespass that fate had ordained could no longer be denied.

“Well, it just so happens there’s been some drama behind the scenes in the kitchen,” you began in a playful tone, “An impromptu competition—no one knows how it started—each of the past three days, we’ve been given multiple versions of the same dish and asked to rate them best to worst.” Stephen huffed in amusement, and you grinned, “Yeah, it’s so…un-Kamar-Taj-y, right? It’s almost like they’re competing for a spot on the Food Network or something…”

The warmth of the cup in his hands was but a pale imitation of the wonderful, familiar warmth filling his heart just watching your dear little mannerisms as you supplied the ongoing details of the cooks’ battle royale for kitchen supremacy. Without missing a beat, you picked up a napkin covered plate and pulled back the cloth, revealing a fresh batch of sel roti, offering him first choice. As one of his favorite kinds of sweet bread, Stephen took two, knowing he’d be going back for more shortly. Without having to ask, he already knew that you’d made them yourself; they were rarely on the dining hall menu, and with the cooks in some sort of heated competition, he was sure none would have taken the time for the deep fried dish. He hadn’t failed to see that lately, you made sure that only his favorite snacks accompanied the nightly teas.

“Thank you, Y/N,” he told you when he reached for a third treat, “I’d rate these as best, if you were part of the kitchen rivalry.”

You parted your lips as though to reply, but then merely nodded; the blush rising in your cheeks was enough to show you valued the complement. Enough to make him wish to find a way to see to your needs, as it seemed you did so effortlessly for him. Halfway through his second cup of tea, Stephen lit on an idea.

Trying to sound as casual as possible, he introduced the topic that you’d been tip toeing around. “It’s two more days,” he asked softly, observing your reaction carefully.

“Yes,” you sighed, casting your eyes on your lap, “I’m just about as ready as I can be.” When you braved looking up, he could see the stubborn doubts that still lingered, coloring your lovely features with anxiety. “I suppose all I can do know is trust that I have this…right?”

“Honey, you do,” he insisted immediately, “You just have to relax and believe.”

“I wish I could…”

Stephen nodded, ready to wager you’d accept his proposition. “If you’d allow me, I can help with that…” You had opened your mouth as if to object, but he waved you off. “This is nothing I’d do as Sorcerer Supreme or even as a Master of the Mystic Arts. It’s an offering of friendship—in much the same way that you make sure I’ve got a delicious snack to go with my cup, which you keep ever filled.” And the way warm thoughts of you usher me to sleep each night and greet me every morning I awake. “It’s a simple thing, really—but if you accept, I’m betting it can help you face your tests more calmly and centered than you’re expecting to be…”

(to be continued)

part one - 'of secret longing and hidden grief'

part two - 'of spilled tea and more than sympathy'

tagging: @harlekin6 @valkyrieandstrangeridingaragorn @doctorstrangeaskblog @frostandflamesfanfic @ben-locked @aeterna-auroral-avenger @paperclippedmime @ironstrange1991 @strange-dreams-are-made-of-these @clea-strange-is-the-way @fantasyfan4life @fanartka @blue-iris-messenger @strangelockd @strangesunicornsparkleunicorn @cerene-ciderr @lovecleastrange @ninetiesloki

if you've asked to be tagged and I left you out, please let me know

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

53 notes · View notes