#The Wizard and the Artist

[sobeautifullyobsessed]

[excerpt from an upcoming Stephen Strange x Hope Collins fic]

🎄Wrapped Up In Christmas Memories🎄

(Indulge me, if you will? Not sure if I'll be able to complete this story by Christmas, let alone the New Year ~ but the need to write this part is strong upon me, while my loves for Stephen and for Story compell me...)

genre: angst, catharsis, healing...and above all, love ❤️

characters: Stephen Strange, Hope Collins (OFC); established relationship

word count: 1.2k-ish

...Beverly Strange had been a music teacher before she ever became a farmer's wife. And for most of her life--despite how stony her husband grew over the years, grimly implacable in the face of what he found to be frivolous--she had done her best to fill their household with music. It was no fluke that Stephen developed such a great love for music that his prodigious intellect maintained a mental catalog of music trivia encompassing multiple genres.

Beverly had given private piano lessons as much for fulfillment as for the extra money the family had needed in lean years on the farm. Until the birth of Stephen's younger brother Victor, she had volunteered as Choir Director at the community's small Lutheran church. Stephen could remember spending many an afternoon in the weeks leading up to Christmas and Easter in the choir loft, coloring quietly and humming along while Beverly conducted practice. Once her youngest child, Donna, had been old enough to sit in a church pew under Stephen's supervision (for their father rarely attended weekly services) Beverly had resumed a place in the choir and was often featured as a soloist during the holidays. Stephen had been damn proud watching his mother sing her favorite carol, 'Oh, Holy Night'; how straight she had stood, free of his father's angry shadow, and of how flawlessly (to him, anyway) her notes had risen--in his child's mind he had been sure they had reached Heaven itself.

Most of all, though, he had always been proud to see when some parishioner or another was moved to tears by the purity of her rendition. Decades later, he could easily recall that feeling if he allowed himself to remember, could hear her in his mind--but the pain of Donna's death and the toll it wreaked upon his mother usually precluded him from indulging in such sentimental recall. Beverly's music had fallen mute the day his sister had drowned; she had never sung in church again, nor had Stephen ever heard her sing in their own home in the too short years that followed before her grief prematurely aged her into an early grave.

Stephen himself had adopted a stoic mien in the wake of losing Donna, internalizing the blame he felt for failing to save her, and by extension, their mother. Nearly two decades later, it still hurt too damn much to remember the first--and very rare--people who had loved him unconditionally, as both had been lost to him well before their time. And as his most vibrant memories of them included Christmastimes, he had turned his back on all but the most superficial of holiday celebrations.

He kept his painful thoughts and memories buried deep and had only confessed them to Christine (whom he realized in retrospect was the third soul to have loved him unconditionally) one sloppy, drunken night two months after his accident. She had given him what solace she could, gently urging him to not be so hard on himself, reminding him that both Donna and Beverly would wish for him to seek some healing, and staying with him until he drifted into a dreamless sleep. When she returned to check on him the next day, he had closed himself off again, rejecting her concern as unnecessary. Brushing off the incident as impertinent to his current life and goals.

But now...oh now! A wee bit at a time, Hope--who loved him as unconditionally as his past dear ones--had been chipping away at that wall. Reintroducing Christmas into his life by osmosis, without a hint of pressure for him to embrace the season. As she'd promised four weeks ago, she'd gone about her Christmasing without the sort of fuss that might bother him. With each little Yuletide advance she had made in the Sanctum, he had found himself relaxing and accepting, smiling in concession, happy to play witness to her happiness in the season.

Christmas was still a week away, and Stephen had begun contemplating what sort of gift he might manage for his own Who-girl. He hoped to find a gift that spoke his heart clearly, but each idea that came to him fell flat soon after he thought it up.

Settled comfortably in his study this evening, he was delving into a freshly discovered manuscript that appeared to have been penned by The Ancient One when she had been apprenticed to Merlin, during his tenure as the Londinium Sanctum Master. Though it should have been a fascinating read, Stephen found himself distracted by the question of what to give Hope--and by the carols she was playing in the living room portion of his quarters. Celtic Woman, he told himself with no effort to recall the facts; released October 2006, peak chart position number one on Billboard for US Worldwide Albums. The trilling of the all female group was pleasant enough, but not at all conducive to the study he was attempting.

Meaning to simply ask Hope to lower the volume so he could concentrate, Stephen removed his reading glasses, leaving them to rest atop the open manuscript and then headed the short way to the main room of his suite. The fragrances of cranberry and evergreen greeted him as he drew near, for she'd made a substantial investment in candles for the season, and they were clearly alight as she wrapped presents. Hope was deep in her element and happy to be so.

The music paused between tracks, and when it resumed, it stopped Stephen in his. The opening strains of 'O, Holy Night' filled the air, and in a heartbeat they landed upon him, sending him back to his youth, well before he had known loss and heartbreak. To those crisp, cold Nebraska evenings when his heart had swelled with love and pride to see his mother sing. Unprepared as he was for those powerful images and sounds to fill his senses, Stephen backed away, his eyes prickling with tears of mixed grief and recollection. Tears he'd put off for far too long in his quest to avoid the pain. And yet he knew that just several feet around the corner was the very soul who had given him the exact comfort, love, and strength he'd needed to complete the dreadful journey he had undertaken to save this Universe from Thanos--and that she'd be only too glad to learn this part of his past and help him find healing.

By some remarkable coincidence, or as if she'd heard his thoughts, Hope's answer came unbidden, her voice blending in as though it had been meant to be a message for his ears alone.

'Sweet hymns of joy, in grateful chorus raise we..., ' she sang as his heart seemed to crack open in bittersweet relief. 'Fall on your knees, O hear the angels voices...' Stephen wrapped his arms across his chest while he wept to remember the love and warmth that had been his in the little church and in every moment spent in his mother's company. How had he made himself ignore such a miraculous gift? Surely the joy of it far outweighed the sorrow. How foolish to have gone so long without allowing himself such comfort.

The carol now drew swiftly to it's close, and still his Hope sang sweetly, following the notes faithfully, unaware that she had reawakened a dormant part of his heart. 'O night,' she crooned, in happy harmony with those recorded singers, 'O night divine!' He swiped his tears away with both his palms, deciding he must tell her this part of his story. His reasons for divorcing Christmas from his life. And that he understood at last that every day of this beautiful season, she'd been patiently showing him that love was stronger than even grief...

[to be completed - once I finish the beginning as well!]

tagging: @aeterna-auroral-avenger @strangelock221b @stewardofningishzida @icytrickster17 @ben-locked @lorelei-lee @mousedetective @darsynia @bakerstreethound @hithertoundreamtof23 @rmoonstoner @mckiwi @doctorstrangeaskblog

[sjonni33]

i will draw the result!!

[prinnay]

The heroes we need 🥺

[stevejgarza]

Wizard worm just emerged from a wizarding hole! Lucky you!!!✨🪱🪄🍀

[evelina-maar]

This is Bisan Owda (@wizard_bisan1 on IG), she's a young journalist who's been documenting the daily life in Gaza, Palestine since before October of last year and continues to do so now, as her and her family have been displaced by Israel, her home and workplace destroyed in the bombings. If you don't already follow her, I highly suggest to do so, as she takes interviews from the local people in the refugee camps and provides a fantastic insight into Palestinians as a nation, their culture and the horrors they face under the Israeli apartheid regime in their own land.🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸

[accoffee7]

Something silly...

[alinamghart]

Gale Dekarios, extended.

[doodlemcjazzhands]

I need an outlet for my marauders brainrot, so here I am, crawling back to tumblr

[citree]

Happy birthday trans people!!!!!! ✨💞🥰💙🫶🌟💕🦎🏳️‍⚧️💞the world is better with you in it ❤️

[hmyrine]

in another universe where peter had balls 💔

sorry yall just a sketch this time 😔

[b-a-m]

what i drew on halloween! werewolf marina and vampire pearl

[sobeautifullyobsessed]

Stephen Strange...and a special Blue Morpho butterfly

(Excerpt from my fic,'Friday in the Park with Stephen'; takes place pre-Infinity War. Posting it now simply because it makes me happy to do so.)

...Stephen missed Hope's call again late Sunday morning, growing a bit frustrated that they were left to play phone tag, but within the hour he’d had to assume the full mantle of Master of the Mystic Arts and join several others in the Basque countryside of Spain, to beat back an incursion fire-breathing Wormes; he’d ended up staying there two days longer as the Sorcerers searched for and finally sealed their point of entry into Earth’s dimension.  Stephen returned from that foray slightly singed, and in need of a hot shower and a cold beer or two.

He found a large manila envelope waiting on the desk in the study he had commandeered as his own. It was marked in one corner ‘Please Do NOT Bend’, addressed simply ‘Stephen Strange’, and had to have been hand delivered, for there was no stamp or postmark—and in place of a return address was the inked image of a small but vibrantly blue butterfly, leaving him without a doubt whom had left it for him.  Intrigued, Stephen carefully slit beneath the sealed flap and pulled out two pieces of 11 x 14 cardstock that had a piece of sketch paper sandwiched between them.  

He thought that it must be the portrait Hope had done of him, as they sat on the grass in Washington Square Park, and he smiled broadly despite his exhaustion, recalling the pleasant way they had whiled away the day, of their evening stroll to Hope’s place in Brooklyn, of the starlight kisses they had shared—and most especially of how reverently she had held his hand against her cheek, gingerly kissing his scarred flesh, and of the image that had flashed through his mind of her with her hair undone, looking very like she was ripe for his taking.  

Stephen let out a slow breath, and with hands that tremored from his old injury, removed the sketch from its protective cover.

"Whoa,” was all he managed, thunderstruck by a new image which Hope has so faithfully rendered.  The paper itself was similar to that in her sketch pad, but  even to his untrained eye, of higher quality.  She had titled the piece The Nature of Beauty--and had depicted a beauty he had honestly not believed was there. Her Artist’s eye was truly keen, for she had captured his every minutia from memory alone.  

The back of his left hand was displayed as though on its side, with his right hand draped across that wrist.  She had added both his bracelets (fashioned of bead and leather, gifted to him by the elders of an Indi village after he had vanquished a Blight Demon that had laid waste to nearly half their fields) and his watch; he recalled her curiosity at him wearing a broken timepiece, and how she had only nodded in understanding when he replied it held sentimental value beyond any question of time, respecting his privacy enough not to press for more. Hope had thoroughly filled in the details, even down to the cracks on the watch face. His fingers were relaxed, though his right index finger was held just slightly bent—and upon it sat the Blue Morpho, it’s wings and body so meticulously portrayed that Stephen could almost see it flutter slightly.  

She had drawn the piece in blacks and greys, with the subtlest hints of color at the his beaded bracelet and his watchband--though the butterfly held the echo of it’s true color, in sky blue chalk (so like the color of the sky that afternoon) which she had treated with a some kind of fixative to keep it from smudging.  He found the sketch reminiscent of DaVinci’s detailed, realistic style, in his multitude of studies of the human form—the perfection of the human form which he had ever worshipped. Lastly, Hope had placed the date in the lower, righthand corner, and her initials bordered on the sketch itself.

But his favorite detail—one he never would have guessed he would find pleasing—was her depiction of the scars upon his hands. Hope had not stinted in depicting the weals that marked them, but she had given them an unexpected softness that left him with a soft appreciation in the center of his chest.  Stephen decided on the spot that he would have it framed right away, to hang above the small desk in his quarters; it would be a gentle reminder of that old axiom ‘beauty is in the eye of the beholder ’—and of an extraordinary soul whom fate had somehow sent in his direction on a sunny, spring afternoon. Hope had taped a note loosely on the reverse of the sketch, which he removed with care. It read:

Dear Stephen,

I hope you enjoy this piece as much as I have enjoyed creating it. This is the original, of course--but I have kept a scan of it for my portfolio. At the least, perhaps it will remind you that beauty is well beyond skin deep, and that others often see what we think of as our flaws in a kinder light than we see ourselves. You may not know this, but in many cultures blue butterflies symbolize joy, beauty, and good fortune--most appropriate when I think how lucky it was that our paths came to cross that day. Thank you for allowing me the privilege of trying my best to capture the unique beauty of your hands...scars and all.

Sincerely,

Hope

PS   I promised patience, and I swear I am a woman of my word.  But please do keep trying, Stephen—as I’m certain that our paths are meant to cross again. xx

Energized by her astonishing gift, Stephen didn’t hesitate.  He grabbed his cell from the shelf where it sat charging, sending a silent request unto the universe ‘please—let her pick up in person this time’.  And perhaps because his prayer was fervent—perhaps too, because he’d earned himself some good karma—Hope picked up on the third ring.  “Stephen,” she exclaimed brightly, “I just knew it would be you this time!”

“I just got back in town, I’m looking at your gorgeous sketch, and I’m thinking we have to get together this afternoon.”  Before something calls me away again. “You game?"

“Absolutely,” she averred, “And what do you have in mind?”  The note of mischief in her voice caused his pulse to speed its pace.

“There’s this great little pub on East 4th Street, The Four-Faced Liar. Some of the best burgers in the city…”

“Got it…”  She sounded as eager as he felt, “Hey, that’s about halfway between our places.”

“Yup.”  Stephen was already planning his route—well, where he could discretely portal to, giving him adequate time to shower and get dressed first, “Let’s say an hour, I’ll meet you there?”

“It’s a date, then?"

“You bet’cha it’s a date,” he promised, “And Hope?”

“Yes, Stephen?”  He could swear he felt her smile across the miles between them.

“Wear some comfy shoes, okay?  There’s no telling what adventures we might get up to today.”

The sigh she gave at that sounded as full of possibilities as his heart was hoping for.  Of course, only time would tell—and as a master of time (in his unique way) he knew that time, in this case, was surely on his side.

Hope & Stephen ~ probably my most popular, most widely read, pairing...

Thank you from the bottom of my ❤️ for creating this @fanartka❣️It's a huge and indescribable thrill to see them together outside of my imagination!!😍💙❤️🦋

[woosh-floosh-art]

[canicules]

miss these losers every DAMN day of my life

[70sscifiart]

The late-night gas station run, in science fiction and fantasy

[mansand]