#hurt Stephen Strange

[hayanwulf]

Furs and Feathers

Partially inspired by @mystical-magician's beautiful fic, Tiresome heart.

As soon as Tony finds his workshop couch empty, he panics.

His workshop is The Most Secure place in all of US, if not the entire world, built from the ground-up by himself. He Does Not take security lightly.

And for that reason, whenever he is unable to keep his selkie pelt safely within his senses’ reach, he leaves it in here, disguised as a simple, comfy blanket, under the watchful eyes of FRIDAY.

But FRIDAY wasn’t watching it today, because she was deactivated for an update. An update that will still require another hour before she can be safely rebooted.

Tony was only gone to the Accords Council meeting for three hours. Three hours. And between then and now, his selkie pelt disappeared from its usual place on the couch.

Between then and now, someone stole his pelt.

And he is losing his mind.

He shuffles around the couch, throwing around the pillows haphazardly in the hope that it’s right there, that it simply got buried. He checks the other couch as well, tossing its pillows to the heavens. He doesn’t care wherever they land.

He goes on to check every likely spot in his workshop where he might have left it. Surely, under that desk. Surely, at DUM-E’s station. Surely it’s somewhere in here, he just misplaced it and forgot.

(That’s impossible. He would never forget where he last left it. It’s The One Thing he always has and always will handle with utmost care.)

He keeps looking and looking, ignoring the swirling dread in his gut that keeps getting worse with each passing moment. Because it had got to be somewhere in here. No one could have stolen it. It’s impossible to break in to his workshop, and the only people who have access in here are Tony’s closest family.

So it has to be here. It has to.

(Because he doesn’t know what he’ll do if it isn’t.)

“—ny, Tony!” A hand lands on his shoulder, and Tony jerks away in surprise, hand instinctively flying up to repulsor his assailant even though there’s no armor around his hands.

His assailant — no not assailant, it’s Stephen — raises hands in a placating gesture, one hand reaching to gently hold Tony’s hand which was still held up in an offensive position. Tony deflates, his shoulders sagging, as he realizes there’s no threat.

“I was calling you, you didn’t listen,” Stephen says, reaching Tony’s face with his other hand, and traces a finger at Tony’s temple. His finger comes back with a bead of sweat. “What happened? What are you searching for?”

Tony swallows, and it is only now he realizes his body has cold tremors too. Stephen must feel that against his hands. Or does he? Tony takes a step away from his lover, extricating his hand from Stephen’s. “Nothing,” he huffs, and tries to calm his racing heart. Deep breaths, or something like that. “Nothing.”

Stephen steps forward, apparently not letting him escape as he gently grabs Tony’s hand again. “Well, clearly it’s not ‘nothing’, seeing as you’re searching for it like a PhD student searching for their thesis on the last minute.”

Tony snorts. “Is that what you did, lost your thesis papers and searched for them five minutes before viva?”

“Obviously not, I was well prepared and right in time. Don’t Deflect,” Stephen adds when Tony opens his mouth with another snark right on his tongue. “What did you lose?”

Tony swallows the tightness around his throat. Of course he can’t just tell Stephen that hey babe, surprise, I’m actually a selkie and I have this coat which practically half of my life depends on, because if I lose it I can never turn into a seal again. And now I have lost it.

No. For all that Tony dearly loves Stephen, he still can’t tell him that.

It’s an odd concept. Tony has trusted Stephen with his life. He trusts Stephen’s magic. He trusts this man with all his deepest, darkest secrets.

Well, all but the one, apparently.

One would think that by now, Tony would be ready to tell Stephen. But he can’t. He doesn’t understand why, but he can’t. Perhaps it’s the fear, the fear that had always been there, that never quite went away.

The fear of ending up like his mother.

She had loved Howard with all her heart, and Howard had betrayed her trust by locking away her pelt, coerced her to forever stay with him on the ground and never return to the sea. He had stripped her of her freedom, of her autonomy. He had stripped away a piece of herself.

But Stephen isn’t like that. Tony knows that. He loves Tony and would never do such a thing to Tony.

And yet..

Tony swallows hard as a thought strikes him.

Stephen wouldn’t... would he?

His eyes flicker to the inconspicuous couch, where his pelt was supposed to be, where it always is. Inside the most secure facility to ever exist in the States. A place which only Tony’s closest family have access to.

His closest family.

Would he?

There’s no way Stephen could have found out. Yes, he is a sorcerer. Yes, he has been to dimensions unimaginable and has met creatures beyond comprehension.

But Tony is nothing if not careful. For this one thing in his life, he has always been careful. And his mother had taught him well. She taught him the simple but infallible charm he always uses to disguise his pelt into a blanket, the only piece of magic he always drew comfort from before Stephen was in the picture.

Besides, even if, hypothetically, Stephen really does know and was the one to take Tony’s pelt, why is he not throwing that fact at Tony’s face already? Why isn’t he already dangling Tony’s freedom right in front of his eyes and driving him helpless with the knowledge that there’s nothing that he can do?

Or maybe maybe he wants to have a bit of fun first. Maybe he wants to watch Tony struggle, kick his hands and feet searching for his most important piece of possession. Maybe he wants to watch Tony crumble, slowly and painfully, until he’s nothing but a husk of himself.

..No, no, no!

He shakes his head to dispel the stupid devil’s whispers in his ears, because no. Stephen isn’t sadistic. Stephen isn’t sadistic. He loves Tony.

So he wouldn’t.. He couldn’t have..

Tony feels like he’s already crumbling. Falling apart.

He slides to the floor with his back against something, burying his head on his hands, hunching in on himself as his body shakes from the barely suppressed sobs. Maybe he is crying. He’s not sure anymore.

A trembling hand cups his knee, and he flinches, shrinking further into himself.

“Sweetheart, would you talk to me?” Stephen asks, his voice at its most gentle tone. Then another hand is on Tony, coaxing him to remove his hand from his head. The shaking hand carefully grips under his chin, making him look up.

And there Stephen is, sitting right next to him on the cold tiles, his eyebrows pulled in concern, his beautiful gray eyes fixed entirely on Tony, filled with so much worry and sorrow and love, as though Tony is his entire world.

His hand leaves Tony’s chin to wipe a stray tear off Tony’s cheek. “Tell me, what happened?”

God, how could Tony have ever thought that this man would hurt him in in such a way?

Shame and guilt twist in his gut, and he finds that he can’t look at Stephen’s eyes; eyes that are full of nothing but concern and love for Tony.

He wonders for a minute if he should lie, or make some excuse, but he simply has no one else to turn to. How can he turn away the only person who even wants to be here, wants to deal with the trainwreck of a man that Tony is?

“Have you.. seen the blanket that’s always there?”

Stephen turns to the direction Tony indicates with his hand, and blinks when he sees the couch. “The light chestnut one?” He turns back to Tony. “I just saw Peter huddled in it, in the common room.”

Tony’s brain freezes.

“You.. a blanket?” Stephen furrows his brow, glancing once at the couch, then shakes his head. “I don’t understand what—”

Tony bolts up on his feet and is already rushing out of the workshop before Stephen has finished his sentence. He is vaguely aware of his lover rushing after him with stumbling steps, trying to keep up with his pace as he makes it towards the common room. Maybe he calls after Tony. Tony isn’t sure. All he can hear right now is his own heart beating against the ribcage.

And then here he is in the common room, and there Peter is, sitting bundled inside the ‘blanket’ like a perfect burrito, on a small sofa, looking very content and on the verge of falling asleep.

“Hey Mr. Stark! Hey again Doctor Strange!” The kid chirps happily upon seeing the adults.

Tony closes his eyes and inhales a shuddering breath at the sight of his pelt. It’s safe. It was right here! “Kid, I’ve told you, that blanket doesn’t leave my workshop.”

Peter blinks, and the blanket around his loosens a little. “It’s really comfy.. and it kind of reminds me of you. Sorry! That sounds weird. You can have it back!” His words progressively come out in a rush as he wrestles himself out of it.

Tony huffs, even as his heart warms at the thought that Peter finds so much safety wrapped uder his pelt.

A selkie’s pelt is extremely personal to them. It is a part of their skin, and they do not allow just anyone to touch it. But Tony has never had a problem with letting his kid use it as a blanket.

Even if Peter will never fully know just how grand a gesture it is, of Tony’s trust in him.

Tony gratefully accepts the ‘blanket’. As soon as his fingers touch against his second skin, his insides fill with relief, a tangible proof that his pelt is here, safe, unharmed. He hugs it close to his chest. Some part of his mind reminds him to be subtle in the presence of company, and he wisely listens to it, easing up his grip.

“Here,” Stephen says, and Tony looks up to find his sorcerer encouraging Levi off of his shoulders, who all too willingly fly over to Peter and wrap him into another perfect burrito.

Right; it’s winter, and Peter just wanted something to wrap around himself, despite the indoors temperature always maintained a manageable level.

Tony’s pelt was never stolen. It was simply an innocent act, by an innocent child who didn’t know the significance of why Tony wanted this particular blanket always within his workshop walls.

Everything is fine. He would’ve even figured it out himself, if he had stopped freaking out for just one damn minute and had thought about it carefully...

Crisis averted, they wordlessly make their way back to the workshop. Tony can feel Stephen’s eyes on him, knows he has questions swirling left and right in his head. What’s so important about this particular blanket?

As Tony flops down on the couch of his workshop, his pelt in his lap, one hand rubbing the heavy exhaustion from his face, he contemplates what to tell. Should he just say that it��s heirloom? Or that it belonged to his mother. And so he’s attached.

He sounds lame even to himself.

Some small, barely audible voice in his head says that you should tell him the truth. This is your chance.

He buries his face in his hands, because he.. He can’t. He wants to, but..

A presence hovers right before Tony. He opens his eyes to find Stephen bending down to touch the ‘blanket’ in his lap.

Right, because Stephen is smart. Extraordinarily smart. He has a vast imagination and can view things from the wildest, most unthought of perspectives. And he’s a sorcerer with the knowledge of thousand different species of the supernatural, and million more spells & magic theories. 

So, really, Tony shouldn’t have been shocked by what happens next.

As Stephen touches the pelt, a wave of orange magic washes over it.

And the disguise falls away.

And there Tony’s pelt is, sitting in his lap, visible in all its glory.

Tony jerks away hurriedly, stunned, hands clutching onto his pelt like his life depends on it.

“Oh,” Stephen breathes. “Oh.” He covers his mouth with both hands in obvious disbelief and..

And fascination, Tony realizes, as he looks at Stephen’s sparkling eyes.

Maybe, maybe that would’ve made Tony feel a little better about all of this, if he had shown it of his own volition.

If he wasn’t feeling so utterly betrayed, for being stripped of his choice.

“I.. wow, I never could’ve even guessed until Today, Tony, you..” Stephen inhales slowly. “How did I not see the clues..” He mutters, mostly to himself.

“Yeah, well, I’m not exactly trying to advertise this, now, am I?” Tony’s voice comes out more snappy than he intended, but he can’t bring himself to care.

Because that fear.. that very thin possibility that Tony might just end up like his mother...

It feels too real now.

Stephen’s eyes flicker with something — realization, perhaps — and he takes a step back, gently raising his hands in a placating gesture. “I didn’t mean to cause you distress. It was just a hunch, the blanket..” Stephen shakes his head. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. I thought...” He sighs, closing his eyes. “I’m going about this the wrong way.”

He then extends a hand to the side and spins a half-sized portal to life, giving Tony a sneak peek to Stephen’s room at the Sanctum through it. He does another hand gesture, one Tony understands to be a simple telekinesis, and an object flies in, the portal closing shut after.

The object, Stephen’s blanket, the one that always stays neatly folded on Stephen’s bed, a rich peacock color and fluffy to the touch, the one Tony always loves hogging when they’re sleeping together, that blanker, drapes itself over Stephen’s shoulders, and— Tony’s breath catches.

There’s no way.

In a shower of orange sparks, the deep peacock blanket changes into a blinding white, beautiful, feathery cloak.

A feather robe!

Tony stares, mouth agape, as Stephen runs a hand down his shoulder, smoothing the pristine white feathers. He doesn’t know what to think. He can barely comprehend what he’s seeing.

Stephen is a swan. His Stephen is a swan.

“I’ve been meaning to tell you,” Stephen says, biting his lip. “I just didn’t know how. Or if you’d...”

If I would understand, Tony completes the unsaid words. If I would cherish that trust. If I would break it.

Tony can understand. God, for the first time in his life, he truly feels understood.

All this time, they were both just two scared, broken men, afraid of breaking further.

Tony takes slow, tentative steps towards Stephen, wanting to see his robe from up close, wanting to touch it, but he doesn’t think that will be acceptable.

Oh, but he does remember touching it, being wrapped in its warmth many a nights, even if it was in a disguised form. And now he can’t stop thinking about it, of all the times this man let Tony drape his feathers on himself.

But now that he knows, he wonders if that will change. If Stephen wouldn’t allow him to touch it anymore.

The thought sends a pang through his heart.

He should’ve told before. God, he should’ve told long ago. But he always chose to stay a coward. He wonders how much of uncertainty and fear he would’ve saved the both of them, if he had chosen to be brave, to be honest.

Walking around Stephen to view the beautiful robe from the back, he freezes at the sight.

Deep scars run vertically down the back, the feathers on those lines dead, deformed.

What he saw on the front was only a glimpse of the beauty that still remains, because the rest of it is hideous.

Just like his scars.

Tony’s heart pains, and he subconsciously reaches out a hand halting an inch away from the feathers. Oh, he wishes he could touch, but—

Stephen backs up, consequently pressing his robe into Tony’s extended hand. Tony gasps at the contact and looks up at Stephen.

Head tilted sideways so he could see Tony behind him, Stephen nods in a silent permission.

Tony swallows and runs his hands over the feather. They feel fluffy and incredibly delicate under his touch, and his heart flutters.

He moves on to the scarred lines, and realizes that the deformity of all the feathers isn’t directly related to the scars. Rather, they are spread out in a very different pattern of their own. Where that pattern emerges from, Tony really couldn’t tell unless Stephen was in his swan form. The feather robe is, after all, an abstraction of his swan hide, in the form of a cloak rather than the exact shape of wings. It’s the same with Tony’s pelt, it appears like a coat more than anything else.

But one thing is, unfortunately apparent.

Stephen can never fly again.

Tony’s heart breaks for this man.

“Do you.. want to touch my pelt?”

Stephen turns around and glances down at Tony’s hand where he’s still holding his pelt to his chest by a hand, and then looks up, hope blooming in his blue eyes. “May I?”

It truly is an odd concept. Only Today, Tony was spiraling down the train of thought of all the awful things Stephen might end up doing if he ever got his hands on Tony’s pelt. And now.. Now he is willing to hand his pelt to Stephen.

Because he knows now, knows with absolute certainty, that Stephen will never betray him.

He offers his pelt towards Stephen. Stephen carefully takes it, and Tony can’t help an involuntary shiver that runs up his spine at the feeling of another touching his pelt like this, without the disguise.

But it’s a pleasant kind of shiver.

Tony can see the awe and marvel in Stephen’s eyes as he so very gently handles the pelt, like it were a beautiful, delicate sculpture made of glass, and would shatter and one smallest mistake.

Stephen moves closer to Tony and drapes the pelt around Tony’s shoulders, straightening it around the shoulders as he murmurs, “It’s silky.”

Tony lets out a soft chuckle. “You don’t say. Yours is fluffier.”

“Well, yours is silkier.”

“Are we turning this into a competition. Cause I can point out twelve more qualities that yours—”

Stephen groans. “Tony, no.”

Tony huffs. “Fine, fine.” He places a hand over Stephen’s where it still rests on his shoulders, and Stephen brings them down so they can hold onto each other.

For a few moments they just stand in the comfort of the other’s presence. It’s.. truth be told, it is a lot to process. There’s just so much to understand here, so much that Tony hadn’t known about Stephen.

And there’s so much he still doesn’t know.

But that can change, starting now.

“So how come you live down here?” Tony asks, looking up at Stephen. From the little that Tony knows, swans are very different from selkies. Half-swans just cannot exist, the way Tony is half-selkie, because children born of a swan and a human never shed a swan robe.

Stephen’s eyes flicker away. Tony feels his body grow tense. “My robe was taken. When I was a child.”

Tony sucks in a sharp breath. “A child? Stephen..”

Stephen shrugged, not looking Tony in the eyes. “My.. the father who raised me, he found me and took my robe. Locked it away. I.. couldn’t find it even after his death. It wasn’t until I became a sorcerer that I searched it out again.” His pets a hand over his feathered shoulder. “And, well, by then I didn’t have much of a reason to go back.” Then, a little quieter, “Not that I would be able to, anyway.”

“Oh, Stephen..” Tony’s heart ached for his love. He had no idea that Stephen.. that he’d been caged all his life.

Just like his mother. Perhaps worse.

“Were you too..?” Stephen asks, finally looking at Tony.

“Christ, no. Well, not me anyway. Howard took my mother’s pelt.”

“I’m sorry,” Stephen says, and genuinely sounds so.

Tony huffs. “Well, we’ve both got quite the shitty life, huh?”

Stephen holds Tony close and leans his forehead against Tony’s. “Not anymore, I suppose.”

Tony smiles softly, closing his eyes and his hands wrap around Stephen’s back, settling buried in the soft, fluffy feathers. “Not anymore.”

[space-mermaid-writing]

Of monsters and men [IronStrange]

Summary: Some kidnappers fucked up big time and now Tony is bonded to this strange demon he continues to summon by accident.

Tags: demon!Stephen Strange, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Angst, Whump, body horror, protective Stephen Strange, Stephen Strange needs a hug

Author's note: It's finally happening! This is the demon fic I talked about ages ago. Special thanks to @harpywritesfic who listened to my random rambles about this and was one of my main motivations to write this in the first place. It might have even been her idea all along. The same amount of thanks goes to @kvjjjjjj who helped me tweaking everything and shaping the story into what it is now.

Read it on AO3 | Masterlist | Word count: 2.5k | Next

Chapter 1: I’m yours to command

Tony had been kidnapped – yet again.

A scratchy bag was blocking his view and his hands were bound above his head.

He had been drugged – must have been because he had blacked out and still felt dizzy, although he regained consciousness a while ago.

Whoever did this, they were experts. They had stripped him of all his tech; even his watch that transformed into a gauntlet. So he was left with no way to contact Jarvis.

At least he was sitting, with his back against a cold stone wall. Even if his left shoulder hurt all the way down to his elbow.

He guessed he was in a big room or some kind of hall. There were some noises and low voices nearby but still too far away to hear any specifics.

Until footsteps approached him and the bag was pulled off his head.

Tony squinted in the sudden light – that came mostly from candles all around the place. Huh – weird interior design choice.

“You know, I’m actually insured against being kidnapped by one million dollars,” Tony said. Because for the love of god, he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. Especially not when he was nervous. And while he was a pro in being kidnapped – really he should have a punch card at this point – it was always a reason to be at least slightly concerned.

Plus his head still felt weird.

The first thing Tony noticed of his kidnapper was his weird outfit. It was some kind of robe, like a monk but in a dark red. He wore a hoodie over it, as if he had decided at the last second that he needed another layer in case it got cold.

“Be glad we already collected everything we need from you.” The guy sounded annoyed by Tony’s comment; and he had a New York accent. Definitely a local then.

“If you have everything, you might as well let me go.”

“Oh no. We will keep you in case they want a snack. Why you of all people have a suitable bloodline is a mystery to me. I really would have liked someone who was easier to kidnap. So, we have to make it worth it.”

Tony squinted his eyes, irritated. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He didn’t get an answer, since the guy turned away and walked back to a group of people. All of them were wearing those red robes and various versions of jackets and hoodies.

Soon Tony noticed that he was in a kind of catacomb made of stone. It looked old, with high ceilings and no windows. Judging by the dusty smell of the air they were probably underground.

There was barely any interior – besides the candle sticks and some boxes that looked like they were brought here only recently.

The walls were decorated with weird carved-in symbols Tony didn’t recognize.

He raised his head. What he thought was a wall behind him was actually a block of stone, some kind of rough black granite. It was placed suspiciously like some kind of altar in the room.

The group of cultists or zealots or whatever, were currently working on copying something from an ancient looking tome onto the ground.

Shit, that wasn’t good.

These guys didn’t just want ransom or secret business information. They were serious with this, and maybe a bit crazy.

Tony tried to pull on his shackles to no avail. He had to think quickly – which wasn’t so easy with his head still swimming.

The cultists finished whatever they drew and inspected it. Then one of them stepped to the boxes, and took out a transparent bag with red liquid in it.

Tony suddenly had a horrible suspicion. He glanced up at his still aching arm: someone had put a band-aid under the crook of his elbow. Right where blood was usually drawn.

Now his lasting nausea made more sense.

They poured the red liquid onto the outer line of their work. Then they gathered in a circle around it and started chanting while holding their hands.

Tony didn’t really want to stay and find out what exactly they were attempting to accomplish here.

The drawn symbols on the ground lit up. Then suddenly, the blood got absorbed into the stone on the ground, as if it had been sucked up.

Tony didn’t believe in hell. Or in heaven for that matter. But he had met a super soldier, a green angry guy full of radiation, and a literal alien god. At this point everything was possible.

His fear spiked when dark smoke filled the floor – centered at the area where his blood had vanished – and the candles flickered. An eerie aura spread, almost as if the air had become tinted.

Tentacles grew out of the smoke; at first they seemed shadow-like but then they solidified, and Tony noticed immediately the sharp spikes that unsheathed from the suckers.

The cultists moved back a bit, making space.

Whatever was going on, Tony needed to leave. Sooner rather than later.

But when he tried to move, he just hurt his wrists.

Then a figure appeared amidst the smoke and the tentacles. It grew out of the shadows and became taller and taller.

Tony saw horns – and some kind of cape? There were more tentacles around the figure and it was hard to tell where the figure and its cape ended and the tentacles began.

The demon’s – there wasn’t any better term to describe the figure – voice echoed in the vault.

“Wħø đȺɍɇs ŧø sᵾmmøn mɇ?”

“It was us, creature of darkness.” One of the cultists took a step forward and the demon’s head whisked around to him. Tony imagined the eyes of such a creature being terrifying, but the cultist spoke with confidence. “Our bond compels you to heed our commands. We are your masters by blood and magic. Together, we shall harness the powers that lie dormant in the shadows.”

The speech was a bit much in Tony’s opinion – on the other hand he was in no position to voice critique.

The demon didn’t say anything. He looked down to where the summoning circle lay under the dark smoke.

Then he stepped over it.

The cultists’ faces fell and they became pale. That was when Tony knew something has went horribly wrong. He went back to trying to free himself. But he just rubbed his wrists more sore and hissed in pain.

The demon turned his head halfway towards him as if drawn by the noise, and Tony quickly bit his tongue. He didn’t want to draw further attention.

Fortunately, the demon deemed the cultists as the more important matter. “Ɏøᵾ Ⱥɍɇ nø mȺsŧɇɍ øf mɨnɇ. Ŧħɇ ƀønđ ɨs ᵽȺɨđ wɨŧħ ƀłøøđ – Ⱥnđ ɨŧ đøɇsn’ŧ ŧȺsŧɇ łɨkɇ ɏøᵾɍs.” He raised a long, slender arm and pointed at the speaker. “Ƀᵾŧ føɍ ɏøᵾ Ɨ wɨłł đøᵾƀłɇ ȼħɇȼk.”

In the next moment he vanished – just to re-appear right in front of the cultist who had addressed him, grabbing him by the throat and lifting him off the ground. He killed him effortlessly, almost like an afterthought.

Panic rose among the other cultists. They realized they had made a mistake and they held no power over the entity they had called. Naturally, they tried to flee.

The tentacles dashed after them – it didn’t look like the demon was willing to let them leave.

Tony averted his eyes and tried to work on his own escape instead. The fearful screams and noises of breaking bones were deafening but he knew his time frame was short, if he wanted to make it out alive.

His shackles were pretty tight and they didn’t give him a lot of room to move. There was nothing around him he could use either, just stone. He tried to grind his shackles against it, but it damaged the stone rather than his bonds. At this rate, he would need hours or days to get any results.

The noise of metal against stone became louder and at first, Tony thought it was because he still felt dizzy and his head was directly next to where he was working to free himself. It took him a second to notice that it had become silent in the room.

He stilled and focused back on his surroundings.

There was nobody left but the demon – and he looked straight at him.

Tony gulped. It was the first time he saw his face.

It was surprisingly human. The skin too pale, maybe even a bit purple-ish. And it seemed to flicker, as if its outlines were blurred – or constantly changing. Like the static noise of a television. His horns were framed by black hair, streaked with white on both sides.

His back was straight with confidence and his long arms hung low, ending in black tainted hands with claw-like fingers.

The ragged robes that once maybe had been blue but now leaned more into purple, and the red cloak around his shoulders had seen better days as well.

Tony squirmed in his place. “For the record, I had nothing to do with bothering you. Not my plan, didn’t approve it.” His eyes flickered to the tentacles all around, that seemed to – surprisingly – calm down, as well as the flickering of the demon’s skin.

The demon approached him. In the dark smoke that still lingered on the floor and with his long robes and cape, it almost looked like he was gliding over the ground. Funnily enough he also seemed to become smaller, shrinking to the size of a regular human being. He still towered over the altar Tony was bound to.

His eyes were blue and utterly inhuman. They looked like a window to another world; Tony could see colors swirling around in them. They were so very deep. Tony felt himself falling, sucked in by the blue and purple. He forgot to breathe.

“It was your blood that summoned me.” The voice of the demon brought Tony back into the moment and he blinked. His legs felt shaky.

The demon’s voice was now different then before- deep, and for some reason he spoke perfect English. Maybe it was the magic involved.

“Sorry about that. It wasn’t voluntary.” It was probably a stupid idea to talk to this creature. Tony’s last words would be something utterly ridiculous.

On the other hand, that was a very fitting way for him to go. He felt – maybe for the first time ever – like he had run out of time and options. Despite all the reckless stuff he was throwing himself into on a daily basis; this was different. He was used to dealing with human villains, maybe robots and the occasional alien from space, but not to whatever this creature was. There was some kind of power emanating from him Tony couldn’t even begin to fathom.

The demon stretched out his claw, sharp and intimidating, and Tony felt his heart race as a wave of dread washed over him. He winced in anticipation of the pain, bracing himself for the harsh reality of whatever cruel fate awaited him.

But the demon inflicted no harm. Instead the demon cut his restraints with a swift move. The shackles fell away, releasing Tony from his captivity.

He sat there, perplexed, as he rubbed his sore wrists, trying to comprehend what had just happened.

And then, to add to his astonishment, the demon lowered himself onto one knee, his head bowed.

“I’m yours to command,” he offered respectfully.

Tony’s initial wonder rapidly shifted back into disbelief mixed with a sense of foreboding.

“No need, thank you. You can leave,” he replied, his voice carrying the certainty that he wanted absolutely no part of what the creature was offering.

Now it was the demon’s turn to be surprised and he looked up. “I’m bound to you by the spell. I have to stay until I have been of service to you.” He eyed the human. “I’m sure there is something you need.” The demon came closer to Tony’s face. His eye color shifted to the clearest blue Tony had ever seen and he was captivated by it.

“Something you wish for. Something you desire.” The demon’s voice dropped an octave. “My mighty powers know only few restrictions.”

Proudly he grinned, revealing a row of terrible razor-sharp canines.

Tony suddenly felt hot. Did someone turn up the thermostat? Maybe this creature was fueled on hellfire or something like that.

Anyway, Tony wasn’t really interested in anything the demon could offer. He had more money than he could ever spend; everybody knew who he was, and if he wanted he could call and speak to the president. There was no power or fame that appealed to him.

But if he had to think of something in order to send this fellow away… “Can you heal that?” He showed his bruised wrists.

The demon paused. This wasn’t what he had expected. But then he nodded and reached out. Tony braced himself because of the claw-like fingers, but – yet again – they were surprisingly gentle when they touched his skin. They curled around the bruise and then – with a golden shimmer – the demon healed him.

Not having expected that, Tony watched in awe. “Wow, that’s incredible.”

The demon puffed up proudly for a moment, before he studied Tony. “That’s not your only injury,” he observed.

His hand wandered up his sleeve and he healed the ache in his arm from where his blood had been drawn, before it settled on his left shoulder. It was his bad one. The one that had been injured so often, Tony was used to the constant ache.

The demon’s hand lit up golden and the pain was gone.

Then the blue eyes looked at his chest, where the light of his arc reactor glowed faintly through the fabric of his shirt.

That was where Tony drew the line. “Don’t touch that,” he ordered sharply.

“But you are injured.”

“I am aware. But it’s good as it is. You can leave now, right? You were of service.”

The demon seemed taken aback by his behavior. As if he had never met a human, that settled for a simple healing spell. Most humans asked for power, wealth or being worshiped. Maybe to destroy their enemies.

“I guess technically I did,” he admitted.

“Totally. I’m a very satisfied customer. Five out of five stars. Big help, thank you. I don’t need your service anymore.”

“Fine.” The demon stepped back and Tony felt like he could breathe again. “It was interesting to meet you, Anthony, son of Howard.”

Before Tony could ask how the fuck he knew his name, the demon disappeared back into the ground – and with him the tentacles and the dark smoke.

Tony leaned back against the stone, exhaling.

Just when he thought life couldn’t get any weirder…

Then he realized he should have asked the demon to bring him home, because he still had no idea where the hell he was.

[darsynia]

Kissfic: Certainty | 500 words

Would love a Stephen Strange fic, hurt/comfort/a bit of grief with #21 tearful kisses and #46 comfort kisses. Appreciate it, @darsynia!

this was sent anon and just poofed from my inbox (TAKE SCREENSHOTS FAM), replaced by the sudden 2024 Ransom ask I posted about yesterday! Whoever you are, I hope everything is okay! I enjoyed writing this, I hope you like it!

MYSTERY SOLVED it was a reply to the original kiss post! Enjoy, @blxckdragonfly!

gif by @elennemigo, and I'll tag @sobeautifullyobsessed 🩷

Certainty

You’ve given up tallying the days. At first, magically slicing tallies in your obsidian shelter had been a hopeful thing. They represented the certainty that each moon cycle was closer to rescue, right up until they didn’t. 

Three. Five. Eight. Fourteen. Twenty-two. Thirty.

The days here are faster than Earth’s days, but after this many double sunsets, elapsed time doesn’t matter anymore. Dormammu has sentenced you to the most solitary of confinements in a wasteland of his own creation. Will Earth look like this someday, a purple-green prison with food but no freedom? Does it look that way now? Is Stephen similarly imprisoned, forced to use the Mystic Arts only for survival and sanity, just as you do?

Is it pathetic of you to cling to that tenuous connection, in the absence of his vibrant, soothing presence?

A crackling noise behind you alerts you to a common danger--nebulaesque rifts that appear randomly at any and all hours. You retreat and instinctively throw up a shield, its golden sparks comforting in their familiarity. For some reason, embers of shield magic start flying toward the rift, conforming themselves to a rigid rectangular portal.

A figure stumbles through, backlit by so much brightness that you can only discern its humanoid shape. They walk toward you, lifting one hand against the cold sunlight, a strange green glow at their wrist. A trickle of hope melts from your icy resolve to avoid hope--and then the figure gets close enough to see the furling red of his cloak.

You start forward, disbelief and delight warring inside your chest with enough vehemence to inhibit breathing. You barely make it two steps before he’s there, warm, warm, salt tears falling into your hair as he clutches you close. His robes smell of sulphur, of pain, but his voice is steady and strong, bringing you back to life with each repetition of your name. The syllables shift, muffled as they are with his lips etching love back into your skin, until at last you hear them.

“We won. We won,” he says, like it’s a mantra, one that ceases when you make eye contact. 

He looks so gaunt, as if weariness were a second Cloak, and you press your hand to his cheek, thumbing away the trail of tears. “How?” Dormammu has the power to devour worlds, and--

“No matter, it is done,” he interrupts, despite the shadow that crosses his bloodsmudged face. “I couldn’t rest until I found you--”

“Stephen!” you object, picturing him desperate for rest and pushing himself forward anyway, but he stops you with a kiss that ends only when his lips curl into a smile.

“Dearest, I didn’t have to. My magic knew right where to look--just one twist of the dial at the Sanctum and there you were!” 

With two hands shaking from emotion, he clasps your hand with one and spins up a portal with the other, saying the words you’ve dreamed of through countless hours of waiting.

“It’s time to go home.”

[ironstrange1991]

Human

Pairing: Defender!Strange x PregnantWife!Reader

Synopsis: Stephen is not acting like himself when he returns from a very hard mission.

Word Count: 1,6k

Warnings: None. Basically the hurt/comfort trope.

A/N: I needed a fic with Stephen being vulnerable and soft and ended up with this. Hope you guys like it.

You liked to think you knew Stephen as well as you knew yourself. You knew when he was happy or sad, when he was tired or excited without him having to say a word to you. And it was exactly Stephen's inability to talk about his feelings that made you get into the habit of reading him so well.

You had been together for a few years, married and expecting your first child and as the weeks progressed and you approached the end of the pregnancy you noticed that Stephen began to become more restless, worried. Work didn't help. In fact, for the past three months work had taken up most of Stephen's time and you believed that was one of the reasons he was so restless. He blamed himself for not spending as much time as he wanted with you.

It was Friday night and you were finishing dinner when Stephen and his Defender friends left the meeting room after being there for hours. They had arrived from a mission that afternoon and locked themselves in that room without you even having time to say hi to your husband.

Hearing the familiar chattering in the entrance hall you went to them in time to say goodbye to Jessica Jones and Clint Barton.

"My god, Y/n you look gorgeous. When will the baby arrive?" Jones asked smiling and trying to look like everything was fine, but you could see from the expressions on Barton and Stephen's faces that something was wrong. Sometimes it happened. Something would go wrong with their missions, and they would return home with those tired and sad faces.

You smiled wrapping your arms around Stephen’s waist. "Later this month. We can't wait." You said glancing at Stephen, but he was serious and just nodded without adding any comment.

When Jones and Barton said goodbye and you were finally alone with your husband you took the time to actually look at him. He was well enough. Some cuts on his face as usual, but what was worrying you was not his physical condition. He seemed tired, yes, but something was off, he was different.

"Are you okay?" You asked a little unsure.

He cupped your cheeks and kissed your forehead avoiding your question. "I am going to take a shower." He said pulling away.

"Dinner is ready. I can help you shower..."

"That won't be necessary, baby. I'm sorry, I should have warned you. I'm not hungry. I'm going straight to bed."

You stood there watching him walk away and go up the stairs. You weren't upset because he wouldn't eat, but rather worried about his behavior. Stephen never refused your help when he arrived on a mission. Most of the time he asked you to help him, always eager to have his wife's hands on him.

It was safe to say that by now you had also lost your hunger, so you put all the food in the fridge and went upstairs to find Stephen already in bed, his back resting in a pile of pillows, wearing his reading glasses - which he almost never did in your presence - reading a huge book of spells that he had probably brought with him from Kamar Taj. You sighed, still standing in the doorway and then decided to enter and closed the door behind you.

You went to the bathroom and brushed your teeth and changed out of your clothes into some comfortable pajamas and then went back to the bedroom, but instead of lying down on your side of the bed you stood next to Stephen and held out your hand. "Give me the book. Now is not the time to work. You just arrived and I need to talk to my husband."

He stared at you over his reading glasses and you had to hold yourself back to keep a straight face. He looked so cute when he wore glasses. "I need to find a specific spell..."

"I didn't ask what you needed to do, Stephen. Give me the book."

He sighed, closing the book and handing it into your hands. It was a heavy leather-bound book with symbols that you had no idea what they meant. You placed it on the bedside table and took his reading glasses off, placing them carefully on top of the book.

"I'm fine by the way. I had a great week at work. The baby is fine too. Thank you so much for asking." You said, sitting next to him on the side of the bed.

He ran his hand over his face, sighing heavily. "I'm sorry."

He cupped your face and pulled you to his lips kissing you softly. "Baby, I'm so sorry."

You held his hand on your face.

"Tell me what's going on. I've noticed you've been more taciturn the last few weeks. But I've never seen you like this, Stephen."

He nodded. "I just... I've had a lot of work the last few weeks. I'm tired, that's all."

You didn't believe that. Surely there was something more he didn't want to say.

"I've seen you tired. Hurt, drained of magic, but I've never seen you like this and I need you to tell me what's going on so I can help you."

He took your hands and held them tight in his and then to your astonishment he gave in to a silent cry. You had never seen Stephen cry in all the years you were together. You cupped his face, wiping the tears from his cheek with your thumb.

"Hey! What's wrong? Tell me what's going on."

He sniffed trying to compose himself and then began to speak with a choked voice.

"I'm tired of losing people. Tired of fighting battles that seem to have no end. Tired of seeing innocent people die. This burden is very heavy sometimes and I don't feel like I can carry it at the moment."

You swallowed thickly, feeling tears welling up in your eyes. "You're human, baby. It's normal to feel this way sometimes, there's nothing wrong with that."

He shook his head. "No, I can't. I'm the Sorcerer Supreme, I'm the leader of the Defenders. I don't have the right to succumb because if I do, more people will die and it will be my fault. It's always my fault..."

You shushed him. "Baby that's not true. You always do your best, but it's not possible to save everyone and I'm sorry you feel this way."

You got up and walked around the bed and got comfortable resting your back on a pile of pillows. "Come here. Lay your head in my lap."

He wiped the tears from his face with the back of his hands and surrendered, doing as you asked. You took off the hair tie and started combing the strands gently with your fingers and he let out a heavy sigh.

"Want to tell me what happened on that last mission?"

He shook his head.

"You know you can tell me anything, Stephen."

"I know, but right now I just want to forget everything. I'm so tired. My body is sore from the fight and my head feels like it's going to explode."

You hummed listening and continued stroking his hair. "When was the last time you ate something?"

He did not answer.

"Breakfast? Dinner?" You insisted.

"I don't remember, to be honest."

"Stephen! Let me get you something to eat."

But he held you in place before you could even think about getting up.

"Tomorrow. I don't think I'll be able to hold anything on my stomach tonight, baby. I just want to stay here with you. Please. Want to feel your hands in me."

You sighed, knowing there was no point in insisting.

"You're not going to work tomorrow. I'll talk to Wong in the morning."

He didn't say anything, which made you even more worried. Normally he would have been reluctant to accept your suggestion.

It broke your heart to see Stephen like that. You knew he gave his all to his work, he always put everyone first, in fact that was one of the reasons for your arguments, but it still seemed like it wasn't enough. He overcharged himself, blamed himself for things that weren't his fault. You just wanted him to see himself through your eyes, for him to see himself the way you saw him: a true selfless hero.

"I love you, Stephen. I know you're mad at yourself right now, but I want you to know that I'm proud of you and everything you do to keep me and everyone in this world safe. It's a very heavy burden, baby, but you know I'll always be here to help you carry it."

He turned to look at you. "I love you. So much. More than anything."

You smiled tracing his beard with the tip of your finger. "I know that out there you have to be the Sorcerer Supreme and the Leader of the Defenders, but here, you are allowed to be human, to be Stephen, my sweet husband."

He sighed reaching to touch your cheek.

"There is nothing in the world I want to be more than your husband."

You smiled, holding his hand and lowering it to your belly. "You’re sure?"

And like magic you saw the corner of his lips curl up in a discreet smile that widened and transformed into a wide and beautiful smile when he felt the baby kicking against his hand.

He pressed his lips against your belly and whispered. "I love you so much little one. Can't wait to finally meet you."

You smiled, stroking his hair. "And she loves you. She always starts kicking when she hears your voice. I know she is proud of you just as I am."

Stephen sat up and held your face in his hands. "Thank you, baby, for taking such a good care of me. Everything I do is for my girls."

You leaned in one of his hands. "And I’m so grateful for that. We'll always be here for you in good or bad times. Your two girls will always be here for you.”

Stephen kissed you softly.

Reblog please! Leave a comment if you liked it. Interact! I will love to read all of your comments and opinions. It inspires me to keep writing!

DEFENDER STRANGE MASTERLIST

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[sobeautifullyobsessed]

'It's Not the Years, Honey - It's the Mileage'

a Whumped Doctor Strange one-shot

Inspired by a couple of pre Multiverse of Madness articles comparing Stephen Strange to Indiana Jones😉😁

genre: whump, hurt/comfort, light humor

rating: general audience

characters: Stephen Strange, Tess O'Neill (Healer of Kamar-Taj, OFC); established relationship; Cloak of Levitation

word count: 1.9k

It was supposed to have been date night, but Stephen was overdue. Three hours overdue. Again. Tess had taken these things in stride, right from the start. After all, you can’t be lucky enough to be the significant other of the Sorcerer Supreme without being incredibly patient, understanding, and flexible. Besides which, he was always so adorable when he finally found his way home, sincere in his apologies, and more often than not, presenting her with a fresh bouquet, which he managed to conjure even before he uttered a single word. Tonight’s transgression was bound to be a two dozen roses mea culpa--and she just knew he’d make them her favorite: pale pink American Beauties.

Not that he ever needed to. His company was dear enough recompense for any time he kept her waiting. Except for the worrying, of course, but Tess had quickly adjusted to that, and so far she hadn’t made any complaint, no matter how late her Stephen managed to show up. She’d rather spend their precious time on more pleasant pursuits--and on showing him however she could, how happy he made her simply by being...him. 

And so, Tess had adjusted down their plans. First, from dinner out and a movie, to take-out and the latest blu-ray release. And then from that, to something she could whip up, quick and easy, in the Sanctum’s smaller kitchen. Stephen was bound to be hungry when he arrived, and she had a hearty pot of stew simmering on the stove and a batch of honey cornbread ready to pop into the oven while he cleaned up. 

Tess had just given the stew another stir, when she felt a tapping on her shoulder. She turned to find Cloak looking battle singed and...well...harried. How this being without a face could express such a wide range of emotions was a continual wonder to her--but right now her immediate reaction was to ask if Stephen was alright. 

Cloak’s collar shook a clear ‘no’, and then it tugged at her arm, to get her moving. She turned off the stove and moved the stewpot to another burner, and followed Cloak down the grand staircase. And there sat Stephen on the third step, head bowed and shoulders hunched, his bloodstained tunic rent in several places. Tess’s heart leapt to her throat, though she tried to remain calm, realizing that he needed her as a Healer tonight, far more than as the woman who loved him. 

She dropped to one knee in front of him, noting that the shelf of his jaw bore a dark bruise, and that he had a nasty cut across the bridge of his nose, a black eye and a split lip. “Hey,” she said softly, reaching her sure hands towards him, studying his wounds with practiced eyes, evaluating which she should address first. Thankfully, the blood on his clothing was dried, so that Tess concluded he wasn’t actively bleeding. “What happened,” she asked quietly, concerned to see him breathe shallowly, as breathing any deeper appeared to make him wince. 

“You don’t wanna know,” he muttered, as she placed both of her palms on his chest and closed her eyes, searching for any internal damage. 

“Ow...ow...ow...owwwwwwww,” he grumbled, “Is this really necessary?” 

Cloak was flitting back and forth, giving the closest approximation of pacing as possible. “It certainly is, as well you know...Doctor.” To that he only grunted, then followed with a heavy groan when she palpated his lower ribs and abdomen. “Stephen,” she informed him patiently, “You’ve got at least three cracked ribs...” 

“I know,” he replied curtly, “Don’t you think I know that?”

Tess tried to placate him. “Of course you do--but there’s no need to be pissy about it. It’ll just take a simple healing spell to start them knitting properly together.” 

“I...know,” he repeated through gritted teeth, attempting to stand. Cloak had to swoop in to keep him from landing hard on his bottom. 

Tess rose and wiped her hands on her denim capris. “Cloak, can you get him up to the infirmary, so I can take care of him properly?” 

Cloak nodded, but Stephen had other ideas. “No infirmary--just get me to my room...” 

Honestly, doctors really do make the worst patients, she thought, although she held her tongue, telling Stephen instead, “Nope. It’s the infirmary for you.” He huffed, but didn’t speak up. “And that’s Healer’s orders, Stephen. I outrank you in this, at least for the moment...” 

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled dismissively. He handed her his sling ring, “We can portal there--it’ll be quicker and a less bumpy trip than relying on...” He wagged his head in Cloak’s direction. 

Tess had to suppress a chuckle, as Cloak’s reaction to that perceived insult was to turn its back to Stephen. “Alright,” she sighed, slipping his ring on and bringing the golden circle to life. She returned to his side and offered him a hand to help him stand up. “Just lean on me, and we’ll be there in a jiffy.” 

She could feel his aversion to appearing so needy, even as he braced himself with an arm across her shoulders, but knew well that it wasn’t on her account. Stephen generally disliked showing weakness to anyone, although as their relationship had blossomed, his trust in her had been enough for him to reveal much of what he hid from the world behind sarcasm and bravado. Tess had always taken such precious trust as both a privilege and an honor. Stiff lipped against his pain and leaning on her heavily, they hobbled through the portal and Tess led him to sit on the nearest bed. 

The infirmary was empty but for them, and she took a moment to close the portal, and then rushed to gather her supplies. Disinfectant and a basin of warm water, along with a washcloth and the softest, fluffiest towel she could conjure, for after she got him cleaned up. And bandages. Lots and lots of bandages. Tess returned to Stephen’s side to find him struggling to remove his tunic. She set down her things, telling him, “Here...let me...” 

“I’ve...got...this.” he grunted, though it was clearly hurting him to raise his arms above his head. 

“No. No you don’t,” she corrected him gently, “Please--just let me do my job, Stephen.” 

“Alright...alright...” He did his best to relax as she worked the garment over his head and off. Tess gasped at the network of contusions across his shoulders and upper chest. “Dammit, Tess...that hurts!” 

“I know, darling. I know.” To her relief, most of his bruises appeared superficial. “Let’s start by getting you cleaned up, okay.” Stephen nooded, and closed his eyes as she washed the cut on his nose, and several shallow scratches on his cheeks and chin, finally seeing to the split on his lower lip. 

Next, she addressed the wounds on his back, circling behind him and perching on the edge of the bed. She was relieved again to find that they were rather shallow as well, and made quick work of cleansing them. Tess chose that moment to speak to him as his woman, rather than as a Healer. “You know--you’re extremely fit for a man your age, darling. But it wouldn’t hurt to be a little more careful out there.”

“It’s not the years, honey...” he snorted, “...it’s the mileage...” Stephen had stiffened despite her gentle approach, but when she applied the disinfectant, he hissed out a string of very un-Stephen-like curses. 

“Don’t be such a baby,” she muttered, her patience beginning to strain.

“I’m not,” he responded petulantly. 

Coulda fooled me, she thought, but bit back that retort. A few minutes more and she had his wounds properly bandaged. Tess set aside the basin and the towel, telling him, “Now let’s see about those ribs. Do you think you can lay back? It’ll be easier that way.” 

“Of course I can,” he barked, “I’m not an invalid, you know.” 

No, you’re just the crankiest Master of the Mystic Arts that I've ever encountered. Bravest and most selfless too, so I suppose I can forgive your churlishness.

He winced when she placed her hands on his shoulders, helping to ease him onto his back. Closing her eyes again, she skimmed her hands above the skin covering his damaged ribs, whispering the charm needed to bolster his body’s natural healing ability. Satisfied that she had succeeded once she could feel the spell take root, Tess pulled her hands away and opened her eyes. Stephen’s were closed, and his face had gone slack with a look of relief. Good enough, she concluded, hoping he would sleep a long while to aid in healing. 

Still, she thought she could do a little something to speed the reduction in the nastiest of his contusions--and it would be best to try while he was asleep. She reached tentative fingers to Stephen’s right shoulder. His eyes flew open with a start, “Owwwwww...that’s still tender, you know!” 

“I’m just trying to help...” 

“Well...I don’t need a nurse anymore,” he groused, “I just want to sleep.” 

“If you let me see to these now, you’ll feel much better in the morning...” Tess trailed her fingertips along his jaw, channeling her own energy into relieving his pain. “Any better?”

"A little,” he pouted, “But it hurts...almost everywhere...”

There seemed to be no pleasing him this way--but still, it was her nature to try. Exasperated, she blurted out, “Well, dammit, Stephen--where doesn’t it hurt?” 

Looking defiant, he showed her his elbow, “Here.” Tess laid the softest kiss she could upon it. 

“And...and here,” he added, pointing to his forehead, his whole demeanor softening in response to her tenderness. Cautiously, Tess leaned in and planted a loving kiss there. Momentum had turned in her favor. 

Stephen pointed to his un-blackened eye, “Um...here?”

Tess smiled softly, watching his eyes flutter shut, and then brushed her lips as lightly as she could upon his eyelid. There was a moment as her face hovered over his, and the look when he opened his eyes made her heart start to melt--for within their mercurial depths, she saw both gratitude and an apology for his childish behavior. Stephen tapped his lips and murmured, “Here.” 

She wondered if he felt her indulgent smile as their lips finally met, but before too long their kiss had gone from chaste to something deeper and more enduring, as he relaxed completely under her loving ministration. When she finally pulled away, Tess found that her kiss had worked a magic of its own, and her beloved Stephen was out like a light. 

Tess arose and draped the sheet across him lightly, then levitated the next bed over and landed it flush against his. Her hunch was that he’d sleep through the night, but she wanted to be close by if he should need her. 

Come morning, she awoke to find him gone--can’t keep a good Sorcerer down for long, she mused--but in his place, he’d left three dozen pale pink American Beauties, and a small piece of handwritten parchment. It was brief but to the point:  

Thank you, honey. For everything. Love - your Stephen xx

tagging: @hithertoundreamtof23 @stewardofningishzida @ironstrange1991 @mousedetective @aphroditesdilemma @icytrickster17 @groovyqueer @battledress @aelaer @mckiwi @couldntbedamned

[shoia]

create a cover for my fanfic based on ironstrange (in Russian)

[irondadfics]

After doctor strange makes everyone forget Peter, peter works as a bartender? Waitress? He serves people.. anyways he's in the middle of his shift and Tony and strange are their to get him back. He's about to go with them when a customer inappropriately cat calls him and then he get embarrassed cause it was in front of Tony and strange. Yeahh.. thank you

sorry for the long wait. This is for you!

To Be Remembered by inkinmyheartandonthepage

“Who are you?”  Peter jerked up, head snapping to the lab door. He had been so lost in his thoughts that he hadn’t heard anyone approaching. His eyes widened as he took in Captain America in the doorway. He wasn’t alone, Natasha Romanov and Colonel Rhodes with him too, each eyeing him with a heavy amount of scepticism.  OR  Tony and Stephen have remembered Peter and bring him home - but all the others see is a random kid stealing Tony's tech.

[space-mermaid-writing]

Of monsters and men [IronStrange]

Summary: Some kidnappers fucked up big time and now Tony is bonded to this strange demon he continues to summon by accident.

Tags:demon!Stephen Strange, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Angst, Whump, body horror, protective Stephen Strange, Stephen Strange needs a hug

Author's note: Let's start operation: domesticate the demon. Beta by @harpywritesfic and @kvjjjjjj

Read it on AO3 | Masterlist | Word count: 1.3k | Previous | Next

Chapter 4: Do you want a sandwich?

Tony was fixing himself a sandwich.

He spread a generous layer of mayonnaise on the bread, followed by ham, piled high, and crisp lettuce. Next came a heap of delicious cheddar cheese.

It would be topped with some tomatoes. He only needed to slice them. The knife wasn’t the sharpest anymore and slipped on the smooth surface, cutting his finger. Cursing, he put his finger in his mouth to prevent bleeding.

Stephen (that still felt like a weird name for a demon. Strange on the other hand was very fitting for him) had explained that every time Tony’s blood touched the ground - or any other similar surface for that matter – the ‘demon’ was called.

Stephen had corrected him about that term but in Tony’s opinion, everything that was summoned by blood and lived in some evil dimension fell into the demon category.

Unfortunately, Tony wasn’t fast enough. There was already a drop of blood on the cutting board. It glowed, before fading into the wood.

“You should be more careful,” Stephen said, looking over Tony’s shoulder to see what the human was doing.

Tony was proud to only wince slightly by the sudden presence. As always, the demon had no respect for his personal space. Weirdly enough, Tony seemed be to getting used to it.

“Sorry,” he muttered, the finger still in his mouth. The metallic taste of blood was unpleasant and he hoped it would stop bleeding soon.

The apology took the demon aback. “What are you sorry for?”

Tony turned towards him. “It must suck to be pulled away from whatever you were doing just because I messed up.”

“I don’t mind it. So far you have proved to be an interesting human being.”

Stephen held out his hand. When Tony hesitated, the demon cocked up his eyebrow expectantly until Tony relented and put his hand in Stephen’s.

Tony had noticed the first time the demon had touched him that Stephen’s hands were chilly. They felt like an empty space, like someone had tried to remove them from existence in a cold rage. Which was absurd, because Tony could clearly see them and feel the uneven skin against his own.

The blackened fingertips merged seamlessly into claws.

Only now Tony realized the rough texture of the demon’s hand came from scars. There were several of them. The oldest ones were barely recognizable and had probably once been long straight lines following the fingers and tendons. Above that was a wild zigzag of newer scars. They looked suspiciously like they had been caused by claws.

No wonder they were trembling.

Tony resisted the urge to gently caress these broken hands. As someone who used his own hands to tinker, to create, he felt those scars in his heart and his very soul.

Stephen guided the injured finger to his own lips. There was still a little blood oozing from the wound, even if it was hardly worth mentioning. Stephen's tongue flicked out – it was much longer than a tongue should be – and licked over the cut.

Tony felt the now familiar tingle of magical healing.

It didn’t matter that the wound would have stopped bleeding on its own in a few minutes.

Their eyes were locked. Today Stephen’s eyes were a cold mix of blue and gray, but when he looked at Tony like this, it felt as if his gaze was burning.

Finally, Tony withdrew his hand, and Stephen didn’t stop him.

“You don’t seem alarmed that I summoned you,” he stated just to say something and break the silence that was deafening.

“I can tell by the amount of blood you use, that it was probably an accident. A few drops wouldn’t normally be enough to call me, if we weren’t bonded.”

Tony stored that information away for later. “Could someone else summon you while you are bonded to me?”

The demon considered it. “For the right price everything is possible,” he said after a while. “But your blood is very powerful and comes from an old lineage. And now with the bond in place, anyone else would have to pay a very high price.”

Which sounded like it was very unlikely. In conclusion, if Tony actually managed to keep his blood where it belonged – inside his own body – the demon would be left in peace. That actually didn’t seem so bad.

Stephen straightened up. “Now, how can I be of service?”

Tony tilted his head, briefly glancing at the cutting board. “Do you want a sandwich?”

“Pardon?”

The engineer pointed with his thumb at the ingredients. “I have enough for two. And after I called you, the least I can do is to offer some food.”

The demon was clearly irritated by the offer. Good to know Tony didn’t have this effect only on humans but also on otherworldly creatures.

“I’m not sure if I can still digest human food,” Stephen admitted slowly.

“You said you were human once.” Although that didn’t have to mean anything. “What do you normally eat?”

“I absorb creatures that would do harm otherwise. Sometimes I consume dark energy. Those cultists were delicious too…”

“Well, I have ham, tomato and cheese. Sit down.” Tony nodded towards the bar chairs at the kitchen island, and for a lack of a better idea, Stephen did just that while the engineer went back to making more sandwiches.

He sliced them in perfect triangles and put one of the plates in front of Stephen.

He was pretty hungry himself and dived right in. “You look different every time I see you.”

Tony remembered the visible horns the first two times the demon had appeared. After that, his appearance had seemed to tone down. It was still eerie; his fingers too long and claw-like, his cheekbones sharp enough to cut paper. The limb proportion wasn’t quite right and sometimes his silhouette seemed to shift in the corner of Tony’s eyes.

Stephen eyed the sandwich in his hands, but he hadn’t taken a bite yet. “The Dark Dimension is an ever-changing realm. I only have some kind of control over it.” Warily, he bit off a corner of the triangle and chewed slowly, ready to spit it out again at any time.

He didn't need to.

“This is really good,” he realized, amazed.

“Thanks, I-…”

Before Tony could end that sentence, Stephen opened his mouth wide – way too wide – and swallowed the thing whole without even chewing.

Tony blinked, bewildered. “Do you want another? PB & J this time?” he then offered.

The demon’s face lit up. “Yes, please!”

So Tony fixed him another sandwich and made it a double decker with extra layers of both peanut butter and jelly. It turned out way too tall for any regular being to eat normally. But Tony was a man of science and he was curious to see how Stephen would handle it.

The sandwich was gone just as fast as the last. Stephen unhinged his jaw like a snake and devoured it in one bite.

Tony should be concerned; but he found he wasn’t. Who was he to judge other people’s eating habits? And who knew how long it had been since Stephen’s last sandwich?

But he wondered how anyone could taste anything at all if they just shoved food down their throat.

Yet, Stephen was delighted by the taste. As if the PB&J sandwich had been the best thing he had eaten in a long time. Maybe it was.

______

“Thank you for your service,” Tony said after they had emptied the bag of bread and were stuffed full. Well, at least Tony felt like he didn’t need to eat for days. Stephen didn’t look like his appetite would ever cease.

The demon tilted his head as he looked at him, confused. “I did nothing?”

“You were lovely company,” Tony smiled. “And that’s good enough for me.”

[memelovescaps]

I'd give up forever to touch you

He stopped in the doorway, the sight of her tear-streaked face twisting something deep within him. He’d faced horrors across universes, but nothing had ever prepared him for this: seeing her so vulnerable, so broken.

Seeing her look so painfully young and scared, so achingly familiar.

Her eyes. He was sure he would never forget them, wet, wide and scared. Something inside of him broke at the sight, and he took a ragged breath, his trembling hands twitching to hold her.

None of the monsters, not the loss he’d faced, not the fear, the pain... nothing cut as deep as seeing those tears on her face, a reminder of all she had lost at such a tender age.

Her wide, tear-bright eyes pulled at memories he rarely allowed himself to touch. Her small frame, curled and trembling, reminded him of a girl he hadn’t been able to save.

Donna.

He hadn’t been able to save her. She was his first failure, and he’d carried that guilt, that ache, like a wound that refused to close.

And now here was America, this brave, remarkable girl who needed him. But he couldn’t keep himself from trembling, afraid that history might repeat itself—that, despite everything, he could lose her, too. That she would become another ghost haunting his failures.

Yet, he couldn’t keep away from her. Even knowing how much it could hurt, her presence soothed an ache so deep, so woven in him, he hadn’t realised how much it had hurt. Until her.

“Ste—Stephen...” she voiced, her voice shaken, broken.

His mind was taken from that horrible night by the lake, his eyes, almost as wild as desperate as hers, focused on her.

His feet took him to her bed, opening his arms as she collided with him, tears rolling down her cheeks as a choked sob emerged from her throat.

He pulled her in, letting her curl up against him and hide against his chest, uncontrollable sobs wracking her. She seemed so small, so much smaller than the fierce girl he knew. It broke him, how much she’d endured, and he knew he couldn’t let her carry that pain alone.

“Shhh it’s alright Scout... I’m here,” his hand gently cradled her head as she buried her face deeper into his chest.

He felt her relax against him, her breath shuddering against his collar, and he pulled her closer, fighting the fear that gnawed at him. He would do whatever it took—he would be everything she needed, even if he had to guard every moment of her life. He couldn’t afford to fail again. He’d lost Donna once. But this time… with America… he wouldn’t make the same mistake.

The cloak moved from his shoulders, wrapping itself gently around them both, cocooning her against his chest. He let his arms settle around her, a fierce promise settling in his heart, grounding him in that quiet certainty.

Also available on Wattpad and Fanfiction.

[strangefaninastrangeland]

Cat's cradle – Strange Tales Of Halloween 2024 – Prompt: several ;)

A/N: A light story with some creepy elements for the season. Beta by the wonderful @hayanwulf. Prompts from the event Strange Tales Of Halloween 2024 @a-strange-server: Claws | “I don’t take orders from a cat.” | Shadow | Demon | Halloween

Stephen deserved a cup of hot tea, with a little honey. Actually, make it a lot of honey: today had been a fruitful day full of successful ghost hunting. The celebratory tea wasn’t meant to be, apparently: he felt a growing tension in the Sanctum, heavy enough to make him stop in his tracks on his way to the kitchen. It suddenly transitioned into something alarming, and Stephen turned toward the corridor of seldom-used practice rooms, trying to place the origin of the feeling. His pace quickened with every step until he was running full-tilt for the last few feet.

He came to an abrupt halt. The door to one of the practice rooms opened wide at his presence, as if welcoming him. Yet the feeling of the room was anything but welcoming. The unpleasant hum he had felt in his breastbone earlier became audible now. The light streaming from the open door pulsed in a staccato rhythm, conducive to a piercing headache. He faced it all head-on.

The room was filled with a complicated latticework of flashing strands of energy, crisscrossing the space like intangible strings. At the center, where many of the lines converged to form a luminescent nexus, stood a familiar human shape.

Stephen groaned. It was not a whine.

“America? What is this supposed to be?” His voice was calm, given the circumstances, with just a hint of tension.

“Stephen? It hurts!”

The cry for help spurred Stephen into action. He took in the scene again, trying to make sense of it, but the complex spell had barely any parts he recognized. He had to rely on his instincts. He reached out mentally and grasped the wavering energy lines. He straightened, flicked his hands and pulled a fistful of the pulsing strands to himself, forcing the terrible harsh light into a bearable glow.

He was able to discern more of the novice now—her desperate grimace and glowing eyes, her hands grabbing at the energy lines trembling in a way that made Stephen’s look steady. The room still looked just as confusing as before: the short bursts of light should have created sharply outlined shadows on the walls, but instead an indistinct mass like heavy smoke swirled menacingly around America’s feet.

Stephen hooked the strands with his will, like strings over fingers, pulling and twisting them into new patterns. He wanted to reduce the complexity and slowly dissolve the spell, but it had a mind of its own, refusing to cooperate.

America adjusted her footing and loosened her grip on the strands. The lattice moved into a star shape and held it for a moment, and Stephen snatched at the chance. He delicately tugged at a knot, taking over from America seamlessly and turning the tangle into a simple frame.

In turn, the shadowy mass erupted around America, streamed toward the ceiling through the spell-frame, doused its light, then dropped down in the furthest corner. It had taken on a somewhat more solid shape now.

Stephen squinted.

“It’s a cat.”

“It’s a demon!” whispered America breathlessly. “Look at the glowing eyes… And the black fangs… It’s a shadow demon, it’s come to tear out our souls!”

“Kid,” whispered back Stephen in exasperation, “stop being melodramatic!” He was, of course, aware of the irony of him requesting this.

The cat-demon-shadow creature used his momentary distraction to leap at his face, use it as a springboard, and somersault out of the open door into the dark corridor. Its claws left burning streaks of pain behind. Excellent. Lifting his trembling hand to his face, carefully avoiding pressure on the injury, Stephen turned to America.

“Now would be a good time to quickly summarize what this was supposed to be?”

~~~

America was one of the more bearable people visiting for Sanctum duty. She was funny, self-reliant, knew no fear (or at least, little fear), and only needed to be told what to do once, maybe twice—unlike most of the lot. The downside was that she had little to no fear of Stephen, and her self-reliance combined with her inventiveness could lead to situations like the current one.

“So, you integrated several summoning and shadow shaping spells into the Harridan Rites. But to what purpose again?”

“I wanted to decorate for Samhain, as a surprise for you. With moving shadows.”

“Since when does one decorate with shadows for Samhain? Is carving turnip lamps and weaving hawthorn wreaths not enough? Admit it, you wanted to make it spookier for Halloween…”

America made a face of unbelieving, falsely accused innocence. She had mentioned being curious about Halloween earlier, when Stephen had given her the short, requisite orientation upon her arrival at the Sanctum. But that was in the morning, just before heading out, and he had been too preoccupied with reducing the hauntings in his assigned area to pay it enough mind.

They were scouring the Sanctum up and down for the escaped shadow creature. Almost an hour went by with no success. The Sanctum itself remained frustratingly uncooperative. The feeling of danger had disappeared completely. The Cloak showed up only to trail after the two of them for a few minutes, then slipped away wherever without helping. Stephen would remember this when it came to brushing time.

After running around futilely, Stephen decided to turn this into a learning opportunity for America. He showed her the wards against intruders in the Observation Room and demonstrated how to run an active check on the Sanctum. He knew it would be of no use for detecting the creature. If the wards didn’t alert him and the Sanctum didn’t guide him to the source of danger, there was, from a magical point of view, no danger. At least no greater one than what always lurked in the Sanctum.

As evening turned into night, America began to flag. Stephen checked her again for residual malignant energies and found her clear for the third time. So, he sent her back to the dorm in Kamar-Taj.

“Are you sure, Stephen? Shouldn’t I stay with you? It’s not safe to be alone like this. The demon could attack you again any minute now.”

“It’s a cat, America. And although I appreciate your concern, your respect would be more welcome in this case.”

“Notice how I’m not speaking in Spanish. Out of respect to you and your ignorance.”

“Your consideration fills me with awe.”

“And gratitude?”

“No, para nada.”

America laughed and turned back from the Kamar-Taj Gateway for a quick hug. Stephen let her prevail. He even managed to untense a smidge.

America let go of him and seemed to hesitate a bit before speaking up. “Thank you for coming and untangling the mess I made. I only kept my control because I knew you would help me.”

“No need to thank me. But you’ll consult me before trying something innovative again, won’t you?”

“I will. I’m sorry. For being reckless. And also for getting you hurt. And releasing a demon in the Sanctum.”

“Oh, get out of here already!” Stephen grinned.

America left with a crooked smile and a small wave. Stephen made his way to the bathroom connected to his bedroom and took out a disinfectant from the medicine cabinet. The burning sensation on the right side of his face came from the three neat, parallel lines torn into his cheek. Not too deep, thankfully. But why was it always his cheeks? A mystery.

~~~

The next morning started bright and early. It was research day, finally! Stephen went to the Sanctum library to gather the next books on his list. He even made sure to put some aside for America, that fit her new interest in the holidays of this universe. He piled his bounty on his study table, brought snacks and tea, set up additional alarms on top of the usual ones, and dove in.

During the day, whenever he resurfaced, he heard unfamiliar sounds, reminiscent of the patter of paws, claws clicking and scratching. To stretch his legs, he went into the kitchen to prepare more tea by hand and was greeted by a strong, unfamiliar odor. Splendid. Hopefully, the thing didn’t mark up his scant supplies.

The food was untampered with, but a quick check on the astral critter population showed a decrease in the bigger ones. That was all right by Stephen—he wasn’t enamored with the vampiric blobs and the book-eating giant insects anyway. What he also wasn’t fond of though were the remains of the critters (some venomous fangs and spindly, barbed legs) he found under his study table.

The scratches on the chair legs didn’t faze him: the Sanctum had some excellent self-healing furniture, and should it prove reticent, Stephen had some mending spells he wanted to try. They would be a good choice to teach America next time as well. It could keep her occupied and out of trouble.

All in all, the cat was doing cat things. And yes, it was a cat in every way that mattered. Stephen knew cats. He had grown up with several cats—barn cats, to be precise—until he left his family, and with it, his childhood behind. They had practically raised him in many ways. Stephen was aware that this statement, should he share it, invited jokes—how, even if he wasn’t raised by wolves but by cats, it still explained a lot about him. But the barn cats were very well socialized.

In the afternoon, the event Stephen had felt was inevitably coming but had deliberately kept out of his mind occurred: a visit from Wong.

“Are those empty plates beside the Tome of Crystal Foci?” Wong asked.

Stephen made a quick gesture to send the plates to the kitchen and turned a composed face toward Wong, calm as they come.

“Wong! A fine day to visit. What can I do for you?” There was no need to address the pertinent topic any sooner than necessary.

“America says you are harboring a dangerous shadow demon in the Sanctum.” Ah, leave it to Wong to get straight to the crux of the matter without any polite nonsense. He also looked pretty harried, if Stephen was honest. His usually impeccably tied belts were a bit loose, and his hair was standing up more than usual. But he wouldn’t thank Stephen for going easy on him, now would he?

“Harboring? Her exact words, I’m sure.” Maintain a poker face. There was nothing extraordinary here.

“You also didn’t really chastise her for the unsupervised experimentation.”

“That also sounds like something America would say. ‘Stephen didn’t chastise me, Wong, please go and chastise him.’ Very likely.”

“No, she used more colorful expressions and less insolence. Look, Stephen. America feels very guilty. And she’s also worried about you.”

“That kid has a terrible sense for what constitutes danger.”

“You are one to talk. What she described is dangerous, Stephen. Let’s not speak about how you left America to her own devices—”

“—I had been assigned to ghost hunting!—” yelped Stephen. How unjust was it to double-schedule him and make it out to be his fault!

“—and let’s only evaluate the summoned entity. Made up of shadows, obviously a predator—”

“It’s a cat!” Stephen threw in, exasperatedly.

“Regardless of its cat-like shape, the Harridan Rites work with demonic energies. As you well know. Don’t make this face at me. This face contains bloody marks, Stephen, not very effective to convince me the entity is harmless.”

“I never claimed it was harmless. But it isn’t all that dangerous either. The Sanctum would know; I would know. It’s been hunting the letter bugs. You of all people would appreciate that, wouldn’t you?”

“So, it’s killing already?”

“Bugs! And such like! Come on, Wong.”

“…Such like. I see. We’ll have the next magical extermination seminar in the New York Sanctum, it looks like.”

“No! Not a seminar! I’ll catch it and show it to you, all right? Nobody else needs to be inconvenienced!” Stephen rushed out. He sat up very straight and proper, every bit the responsible sorcerer and Sanctum Master.

Wong stared at him blankly. Then he seemed to crumple. He sighed and sat down, pulling out one of Stephen’s teacups from its hiding place behind a grimoire and drinking all its contents in one big gulp.

“Stephen, I’m not doing this to torture you.”

“I know.”

“I’m worried. And rightfully so.”

“I know. You don’t need to be, but I know, and I’ll do my due diligence. Honestly.”

“Before Samhain? Shadows grow stronger and stronger in this area until then, you know that as well.”

“No worries, Wong. I know cats and also shadows.”

~~~

Stephen knew cats and also shadows. He obviously didn’t know shadow cats of the demonic variety. The creature evaded every last attempt to capture it. Traps were left unsprung. Stakeouts were unsuccessful. He only caught sight of it a handful of times, as it darted from dark corners to other secluded places. It seemed to grow in size at a steady rate. On one memorable occasion, it appeared from under his bed after he had spent every free minute searching for it and desperately needed a power nap. It blended into the shadows of his bedside table and vanished. Stephen had to work through his adrenaline response with some extra breathing exercises.

Sadly, the Cloak was performing below their usual level of competence. They were more diligent in helping Stephen with his manual dexterity exercises than in assisting during the hunt. Novices were forbidden to come and help out for the time being, because of the supposed danger. Everyone above their rank was busier than ever, as this period fell between mystically significant times that various cultures associated with the harvest and the border between life and death. Stephen was alone with this task, and he was getting a bit miffed.

~~~

Stephen woke with a start in the middle of the night. Luminescent eyes greeted him so close to his face that he had difficulty focusing. He lurched into motion, clapped his hands, and snapped out glowing tendrils from between them—only for them to trail uselessly in the darkness of his bedroom. With a wave of his hand, the candles flared up, their light revealing the cat sitting in the open doorway. Its shape was blurred by the shadowy mist swirling around it. The creature had grown even larger, now about the size of a panther. Not that size mattered in these things.

To Stephen, it still appeared to be a cat, with pointed ears like black flames and yellow eyes. Its sharp black teeth were permanently on display though, as it had no lips to draw back. The mist reminded Stephen of swishing tails and seemed to express an almost palpable disdain.

It blinked slowly. Stephen blinked back to communicate friendliness. It turned around, looking back at him, its expectant attitude clear despite its smoky shape and perpetually menacing face.

“Don’t tell me there’s a little Timmy somewhere. With a well… Or did you perhaps prepare a mousetrap for me?” Not expecting an answer, Stephen stood up, spelled his sorcerer’s garb on, and stepped out into the corridor after the cat.

The Sanctum was silent, and no suspicious movement in the mystical energies caught Stephen’s attention. The cat, as was its wont, dissolved into the shadows. Still, something was afoot. Stephen decided to visit the Observation Room again, where several wards were anchored for easier monitoring. He turned left, and after just a few steps, the cat's form coalesced before him, blocking the width of the corridor imperiously and forbidding him to go any further. A low hiss served as a warning.

“I don’t take orders from a cat.”

The hiss grew into a distinctly uncatlike, unearthly sound, as if it were rattling from many throats, with higher tones mixed in. The rattling and whistling reminded Stephen of the old teakettle his college roommate had. Its faulty valve had produced a very similar sound. That kettle had been a health hazard, just like this cat.

Stephen took a few steps backward, keeping his eyes on the aggravating beast. The rattling shifted into hissing before fading into silence. After a few tense moments, he decided to collect more data on the cat’s behavior. He turned around and began to walk away, ready to duck at a moment’s notice. The cat glided past him, somehow using both the walls and the floor, which unsettled him even more. It stopped at the end of the corridor, blinked at him again, and slipped around the corner.

After a few false turns, guided by the cat, Stephen finally stepped into the foyer. The Cloak came hurtling from one of the side passages and settled onto his shoulders.

“Now you show up? Where have you been? Sniffing at the laundry again?”

The Cloak slapped his calf, clearly not appreciating his humor.

Stephen peered suspiciously down the stairs into the corridor leading to the Kamar-Taj Gateway, where a wisp of dark mist was just seeping away. He then lifted into the air and slowly descended.

He had barely touched down before the Gateway activated. The double doors beyond its surface swung open, revealing a crowd of people on the other side, all clad in gray and white. They moved frantically and in a disorganized manner, jostling one another as they backed away from something out of Stephen's sight. Though the general clamor was muted, their sense of urgency was unmistakable.

One person from the crowd stepped up to the door frame and locked eyes with Stephen. It was America, both a relief and a cause for the worry already churning in Stephen’s gut to intensify. She shouted to the others, prompting them to move toward the Gateway. At first, only the nearest two responded; then the Novices further back in the Hall of Agamotto’s Orb turned and hurried through to Stephen. They brought with them frantic energy, panicked shouting, and the acrid smell of fire and smoke.

Stephen flattened himself against the wall and raised his voice over the cacophony: “Go on through! Step out into the foyer! No need to shove each other, but make space!”

The people seemed to listen, their panic lessening, though the cramped corridor was slow to empty. America was the last to run through, having waved the others forward. She hastily described a fire of unknown origin laying waste to the practice courtyard, the novices' dorms, and the refectory, seemingly burning stone and wood alike. Its strength and unpredictability both made Stephen suspect a magical source.

“What about the others?” Stephen glanced at the still-open Gateway, keenly aware of the ongoing threat. He saw no movement, only thickening smoke. The refugees slowly shuffled along in the relative safety of the Sanctum corridor.

It turned out that the few Apprentices who were supposed to keep an eye on the Novices in the morning were unaccounted for. As far as America knew, everyone else had left Kamar Taj on missions. She and a few others tried to round up everyone they could, but some must have fled into Kathmandu, and the smoke and heat prevented her group from going after them. Few of them had sling rings, and those didn’t seem to work, so they retreated to the permanent gateways instead. At first, all three were locked, but then the one to New York opened, and here they were. Stephen’s stomach clenched at her words. He wanted to step through himself to help, but leaving the refugees alone would be irresponsible and… The decision was taken away from him as the Gateway closed and didn’t open at his prodding. It was locked.

Swallowing a sense of trepidation, Stephen clapped America on the shoulder, muttered a ‘Good job!’, and sent her to guide the novices from the foyer to a conference room to evaluate injuries. As he moved to herd the remaining refugees further into the Sanctum, he was suddenly forced to a halt: the shadow cat had dropped down from the ceiling. It let out an eerie shriek, making the earlier rattling sound seem like a calming melody in comparison. In an instant, the cat’s shadowy form filled the narrow passage to safety, completely blocking the way. The Sanctum behind it was shrouded in darkness. Only two stragglers remained with Stephen, trapped between the Gateway and the shadow creature.

Stephen didn’t hesitate. He leapt forward, wedging himself between the cat and the two Novices—a young boy and a middle-aged woman in heavily singed practice robes. Both looked terrified beyond measure, clutching each other’s hands tightly.

Stephen spread his arms wide, ensuring the Novices remained safely behind his back.

“What’s the matter with you? Let us through now! There’s no need for violence,” Stephen rasped, his throat raw from the bitter smoke that had clung to the refugees. While he intended to stall, he also conjured his shields.

But the creature wasn’t interested in his reasoning or his measly protection. It flowed around him, seeping into his robes, into his skin. His breath hitched, yet the terror he should have felt was muted, as if behind a heavy curtain. Was the creature suppressing his natural emotional responses? He tried to clench his hands, to no avail. It was definitely affecting his motor control. His cognitive functions—his ability to think—seemed to remain his own.

Abruptly, the shadows turned his body, and he found himself now facing the boy and the woman. He saw the smoky shadow waft from his mouth and his nose, and swirl in the hollows of his eyes. An incongruous thought struck him, trying to elicit an inappropriate laugh but not succeeding: what a spooky apparition he must be now, with shadows pooling over his eyes—America’s shadow decoration taken to the extreme. His determination didn’t waver. As long as he had control over his mind, he retained some control over his magic. He would not succumb to this creature. He would not harm his charges.

Suddenly, and bloodcurdlingly, the third eye in the middle of his forehead burst open unexpectedly, shattering his illusion of control. The drab, ashen-faced figures before him turned into a bonfire of roiling colors—forest green and dirty blue for both of them, with pale yellow in addition for the woman.

Then he saw it. Both feet of the boy and the sole of the woman's left foot were a disturbing red, with drips traveling upward, glowing like embers and consuming the colors surrounding their bodies. They must have come into contact with something malicious and highly dangerous. Maybe they had tripped into the magical cause of the fire.

“Step out of your shoes and step back,” he growled. It seemed the creature was relinquishing at least some control back to him.

The boy obeyed instantly, stepping on his own heel to kick off his trainers while tugging on the hand of the woman—his sister, or maybe mother. His trembling was evident even through Stephen’s altered vision. Finally, she broke free from her stupor and did the same. They both backed away hastily.

The redness stayed with the shoes. Good. Now something to contain it, and quickly. Stephen lifted his arms of his own volition and slapped the Cage of Dorian—a half-sphere of amber light—over the shoes. It was a fruitless endeavor. The red glow grew, shattered Stephen’s hold, and formed into a monster shrouded in flame lunging at him. He grabbed his Cloak, sent them to rescue the novices trapped behind the creature, and conjured his Eldritch Blade in a smooth motion.

The shadow cat left his body with a throaty rumble, snapping his third eye shut again.

The whoosh of displacement tugged Stephen forward and to the side, giving the creature one last chance to exert control over his body. He let the movement carry him to the corridor’s wall and slashed his blade upward in a controlled arc.

The fire monster sent a whip of flames after him, the weapon's tendrils writhing like living things. Stephen ducked and continued his swing. His blade tore a gash into the monster's blackened wing. It threw its head to the side, its twisted horn barely missing Stephen’s shoulder.

The shadow cat sprang at the fire monster’s back, then lost its catlike form completely, twisted around its torso, and squeezed in a clear attempt to fight it. Though it was unable to douse the flames, it provided a few precious seconds for the Cloak to abscond with the novices and for Stephen to seal the corridor behind them. Turning back to look into the fire being’s eyes, which burned with ancient, malevolent intelligence, Stephen knew this might be his last fight. He only hoped he could buy enough time for the others to find help.

~~~

Fighting in close quarters was not Stephen’s greatest strength. It was more luck than design that enabled him to keep the monster from burning him to cinders. The minutes stretched out painfully, and he struggled to keep his footing. He managed to slice off one of its horns, destroy its whips, and reduce the heat it emanated enough that the floor beneath its feet was no longer melting. But he had reached his limit, and the monster wasn’t slowing down or weakening at all. The flames that enveloped its body were still deadly.

Despite his small victories, Stephen was still losing, and he knew he couldn't hold on much longer. He forced down the familiar sense of dread.

The shadow, diminished in size by now, threw itself with abandon against the intruder again and again. It managed to latch on to its maw, occupying its attention, and Stephen retreated a few steps, his breath coming in short gasps.

The heat was unbearable, and the air was probably thinner than was healthy for Stephen. Normal flames would have already grown smaller due to a lack of oxygen… probably. But these weren’t normal flames.

There was a thought, though! If Stephen could find the mystical equivalent of the oxygen the monster’s fire needed and block it... By lowering the flames or even extinguishing them, the monster could become vulnerable. He felt his resolve strengthen.

The idea barely took form in Stephen’s mind before the monster tore the shadow into pieces, leaving him no more time to plan. He threw everything he could think of at the snarling face coming for him, trying to smother the flames. He conjured various liquids—or rather, summoned them from the Sanctum's hidden storages. He coated it with the shimmering dust that fell from one of the relics originating from Egypt, said to interfere with connections to several dimensions. Nothing helped.

In his desperation, there was only one last thing he could think of: use up everything, like drawing out the air from the area or igniting a backfire would do in the case of a normal fire. He vaulted into the corner at the Kamar-Taj Gateway, cupped his hand, and called up the Dissolution Matrix. He hurtled it at the monster’s back.

The Matrix opened up like a bloom, transforming everything it could in the small room. It sucked up every kind of energy Stephen had inscribed in it—including the ambient radiation of his life force. The implications were clear: he would lose consciousness, and soon.

The flames on the monster’s limbs were the first to flicker and die. It thrashed about, thumping against the walls and roaring as if in pain. Stephen squeezed himself further into the corner to avoid its flailing, protecting his head with his arms.

The last thing Stephen saw before losing consciousness was the final flames extinguishing on the monster’s head, a small shadow tearing into its writhing form through its howling maw, exiting through its nape and then dispersing into nothing, and the Matrix erupting into blue butterflies.

~~~

There was a commotion outside his door. Stephen sat cross-legged on his bed, eyeing his lightly twitching hands. His left one was burned. He seriously contemplated numbing it from the elbow down—but that was just him whining. The damage was superficial.

He sighed heavily, only to regret it when the movement tugged at the bandages over his shoulder. Burns there as well. The whole room reeked of the burn salve America had generously swathed on him before another novice covered his wounds with sterile dressing and gauze. At least none of the burns were serious enough to require a hospital visit.

The commotion became too loud to ignore, so Stephen slid his legs over the side of the bed, though he didn't get up. After awakening among the rubble from the fight, he had activated the Gateway to Kamar-Taj—thankfully, it worked again. He had unsealed the corridor, let America drag him into the foyer, opened portals to the other Sanctums, checked in with the Masters, asked for aid, and finally given in to the novices' pleading, allowing them to provide medical aid. Only then had he left America in charge, assigning the Cloak as her second in command, and taken shelter in his room. There were too many people in the Sanctum.

Sitting on the edge of his bed, wishing hard that whatever it was would just go away, he felt his shoulders droop in relief when Wong stepped in.

“Wong! You are taking care of the novices, aren’t you?”

“The novices are well and are happily exploring the Sanctum,” Wong said matter-of-factly.

“You're a true comedian, Wong. I hope they keep to the approved areas.” The Sanctum wasn’t alerting Stephen to anything alarming, but it was also occupied with repairs. Who knew what could slip under the radar, so to speak.

“America is riding herd over them,” Wong said as he pulled an armchair across from Stephen and sat down.

“Good. What happened in Kamar-Taj? Where did the real-life version of a stunted Balrog come from?”

Wong grimaced and rubbed a hand over his already spiky hair. “Remnants of chaos energy, hidden in a mirror, all this time. After getting out, it spread quickly, and it warped the dimensional energies enough to prevent travel. We don’t know yet what managed to overcome its influence long enough to open the way here. It could have been your presence. But it prevented casualties, thank the Vishanti. The loss is already great enough. A lot of what we had barely rebuilt is destroyed or marred beyond use.”

Stephen didn’t know what to say. There was probably nothing that could be said. He could, however, distract Wong from his woes for a bit. “You know, the shadow cat you all have been so suspicious of? It warned us. It also fought for us, to its own detriment. It killed the chaos entity in the end and then vanished.”

“I heard it from America and Ms. Shaiwan. What happened after you sealed yourself in, Stephen?”

Stephen made a laconic report in the original sense. He began with the wake-up call from the cat, summarized the situation, listed what worked and what didn’t against the chaos entity, and gave a brief roundup of the injuries and lost resources in the New York Sanctum.

“This method of yours deserves further investigation, but well done.” This was a rare word of almost-praise from Wong. “I've been thinking about your shadow cat as well, Stephen. I looked up a few things about the original spell constellation. It required some key components that America had left out, and I suspect it got them from you. You gave form to the shadow entity she had called up.”

“Sounds plausible.”

Wong allowed a small smile to show. “It imprinted on you. Looks like you have catlike tendencies.”

“Of course I have them. Anyone with healthy boundaries should.” Cats were very assertive creatures in Stephen’s experience.

“Luckily for us, you’ve also internalized the role of a protector. That’s why you shaped a protector-cat shadow being.”

“It’s more likely that it imprinted on me at the moment of its embodiment, when the main purpose in my mind was to protect America and the Sanctum,” Stephen said dryly.

“That works as well.” Wong stood up, stretched his back, and groaned. “Now, use your time to convalesce, Stephen. Light duty.” He stopped before opening the door and turned a suspiciously satisfied expression toward Stephen. “Only taking care of yourself and your novices. It’ll take time to rebuild again; we need to clean more rigorously, it seems.”

“My novices? Wong!”

Wong quickly pulled the door shut behind him. Stephen huffed. The audacity!

Everything was blessedly silent again. He looked down and wiggled his toes. And if there was a small wisp of shadow weaving in and out between his legs on the floor, nobody needed to know, did they?

[sharksnshakes]

Bad Dream? - Stephen Strange

Gn! reader wakes up from a nightmare when taking a midday nap. Good thing a certain sorcerer (and a certain cloak) is around to ground them.

A/N; as a throwback to my very first post on this blog pls enjoy some stephen strange hurt/comfort that's been in my drafts for an actual eternity!! use of (y/n)

Wordcount; 542

TW; none i can think of! other than (some) mutual pining and stephen being emotionally constipated but what's new.

You jerked awake with a start, a strangled sound ripping itself from your throat.

"(y/n)?" Stephen's voice called.

Chest heaving, you pawed at your eyes, wiping away hot tears and cold sweat.

"Hey," Stephen said, louder this time. Your surroundings started coming back into focus--you were on the couch, you must've drifted off, and the cushion you were sitting on sagged slightly as the sorcerer sat down beside you. "(y/n)? Breathe, alright? Breathe."

You followed his instructions, attempting to steady your semi-hyperventilating. As you came down from your rude awakening, you looked around once more: you were in the Sanctum Sanctorum, curled up on the couch in the library. The grandfather clock boasted the time, it was just after three in the afternoon.

"Breathe," Stephen repeated.

Though you'd seen Stephen sit down beside you before, it took you until this moment to actually realize it.

He watched you with concern. The Cloak had wrapped itself around your shoulders--How did it get there? You sure didn't remember. You were clutching Stephen's hands in a clammy, shaky death grip.

Dropping his hands like they were hot stones, you stared into the oriental rug on the floor. This was not the way you wanted to end your nap.

"Sorry," you mumbled, voice raspy from sleep. "I didn't mean to... you know."

"Are you alright?"

You sighed. "Not really."

A steaming mug appeared in Stephen's hands a moment later, and he handed it to you. It was filled with a sweet-smelling tea.

"Rose," he supplemented, gesturing to the mug. "Good for nerves."

"Thanks," you echoed, taking a small sip. The near-scalding liquid was at an ideal temperature to warm up the cold that had buried itself deep within you. "...Sorry."

"For what?"

You glanced up at Stephen, confused as to why he seemed so nonchalant.

"For using your hands like a stress ball and making you go our of your way to get me tea?"

He chuckled, a slight grin tugging at his lips. "For starters, it wasn't so bad. And, secondly, conjuring tea is hardly going out of my way--though I certainly would've. For you."

"Did I interrupt anything important?"

"No."

"You, uh, don't have to stay-"

"Do you want to talk about it?"

You frowned. "Huh?"

"You're... not the only one who has nightmares," he supplemented, shrugging. "I've found that getting them out makes them a bit less intimidating."

You sighed, taking another sip of tea.

"It's up to you, though."

After another beat of silence, you explained the bad dream. Stephen nodded along as you explained. The Cloak rubbed your shoulders soothingly, and you found yourself leaning into its warmth.

"You're right, you know," you finally said, "I do feel marginally better."

"Told you so."

"Uh-huh. Rub it in, Doctor Strange."

You met his eyes. He was smiling at you, you were smiling at him... and you were instantly aware of just how close he was to you. Your thighs were touching, the Cloak drawing you closer together, the two of you sharing its warmth-

"I'll be in the study if you need anything," Stephen said, quickly standing up. He swallowed, shaking his head as if to clear it.

"I... yeah," you nodded, feeling warmth crawl up your neck. "Yeah. Thanks."

He gave you a nod, and disappeared through the door without another word.

It was safe to say you wouldn't be taking any naps for a while.

[sobeautifullyobsessed]

🎄Wrapped Up In Christmas Memories🎄

a Stephen Strange x Hope Collins fic

Chapter Two

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

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

word count: 3.0k

moodboard by @strangelock221b 💙🩵💜

The weeks ticked down towards Christmas, and Stephen remained as occupied with his work as in any other month of the year. And still Hope held steadfast to her promise to ask nothing but his tolerance as she rang the season in. Every few days, when he emerged from attending to his Sanctum duties or his ongoing studies, or returned from a far-flung mission or from Kamar-Taj itself, he would find she had added some new decoration or holiday detail, making not only his quarters, but the main floor as well, ever more festive. Her Artist's eye insured that she kept everything tasteful and in accord with the surroundings. Hope's latest addition had been an evergreen garland for the fireplace on the main floor, lit with colorful fairy lights and frosted candle holders of varying heights bearing ivory or red candles, nested along the greenery.

Whenever he complimented her newest handiwork, Hope would give a modest little shrug as she thanked him, moving onto the next subject of conversation without so much as a pause--though Stephen could absolutely feel how pleased she was. Thus, their equilibrium continued, and despite his ambivalence about the holiday season, he found himself quietly looking forward to each new surprise.

One such surprise was Hope's newfound dedication to attending the weekly vigil service each Saturday evening of Advent at a small Roman Catholic parish in Brooklyn. In their occasional discussions of philosophy and faith, she had given Stephen the impression that although she was lapsed from organized religion, Hope still held a true belief in a higher power. Indeed, he always saw her as a living example of the biblical maxim 'do unto others...'. And of course, she had understood and respected the beliefs he had come to hold about soul & spirit, and good & evil, based on his experiences and encounters with mystic realities.

In response to his curiosity on the first Saturday she shared her plans, Hope fell back on a familiar explanation. "It's a tradition that does my heart good to honor," she told him frankly. "It connects me to my family even when we're apart. With those who've passed on...and with past generations." He didn't miss the flicker of grief in her eyes and in the set of her mouth at her reference to those who had passed on, though soon enough, her honest smile replaced the sorrow. "Besides which, I love the music...the lights on the tree...the aroma of the incense they save for the most sacred moments. That sense of being one with a community of like-minded souls is vital to my experience of the Christmas season." Stephen found none of this surprising, for such was her nature, and part of the reason she had conquered his heart with no effort at all.

With a scant two weeks until Christmas Day, the Sanctum felt ripe with Hope's inimitable brand of holiday cheer. The sights, the scents, the flavors, and the very sounds that filled his rooms, became reminders of his own Christmases past, though Stephen refused to entertain those memories as he knew they'd only leave him morose.

Even the Sanctum kitchens had their own unique decorations, courtesy of some of Hope's grammar school-aged students; a couple dozen had given her handmade, crayon-colored Christmas cards and Tempera-painted winter scenes of snowmen and Santas, Angels and Christmas trees, or sledding and skating children, which found their way onto the walls and the refrigerators. She'd even fashioned a miniature tree as a tabletop centerpiece, festooned with a popcorn & cranberry garland and a tiny paper chain of red & green construction paper loops. In a surprising moment of clarity, Stephen remembered the several years when he still believed in Santa Claus and had helped his mother create the same sort of decorations for their tree, and how excited he'd been counting down the days until Christmas morn. Memories of a simple happiness that he'd quite forgotten had been his. Gazing at Hope's little tree brought a warmth to his chest he would like to share with her - but he stopped himself each time, knowing full well that if he let that recollection bubble forth, it might open the gates to other memories not as pleasant.

Most evenings now found Hope settled on the sofa wrapping presents or penning personal greetings in Christmas cards, while her favorite Christmas movies played on television, setting what she considered the ideal mood. Stephen eventually ended up joining her some evenings, and once he took his place beside her, she very willingly set aside her project in favor of cuddling on the couch with him. He ended up adopting the habit of fixing them hot chocolate, and in Hope's homey company, he discovered that he didn't even mind the movies he'd once found trite and too sentimental since his undergraduate days. Besides, they made Hope happy--and her happiness had become key to his own.

On the 18th, Stephen was called to Kamar-Taj for an emergency meeting of all the Masters of the Sanctums and those in charge of the various disciplines. A rift in Earth's reality had opened inside the Kibo caldera of Mount Kilimanjaro, and whatever entities had worked that magic, it appeared they were trying to wake the dormant volcano into eruption. He only had time enough to fire off a cursory text to Hope, warning her he might be away for several days--and advising her not to worry. Then he was off to Tanzania, along with Wong and a dozen other Masters to beat back the incursion and seal the rift.

'Twas a grim Stephen that returned to the New York Sanctum just after midnight on December 21st. Hope was sound asleep, and he didn't have the heart to awaken her. He was sporting a split lip and multiple abrasions to his face, neck, and hands, and though he had been charm treated in the Kamar-Taj Infirmary, he still had a slight but nagging cough from smoke inhalation.

Yet he had gotten off more lightly than most of those who had to battle the dragonlike creatures that seemed to be ideally suited for a volcanic environment; that breathed fire and fought ferociously to maintain their foothold. Two Masters had fallen to their flames, and three more had suffered severe enough burns to be placed in magic induced comas while Healers worked around the clock to hasten the regeneration of new, healthy skin. Wong, who had suffered a broken wrist, bore the same sort of wounds as Strange and the other Masters did. Stephen was heartsick over the lost lives and the pain of his brothers & sisters, and his body ached all over.

Casting the Mirror Dimension on the master bath, he bundled up his rent robes and buried them deep in the hamper so Hope wouldn't see how badly they were damaged and bloodstained. Stephen had already repaired Cloak, and it had flitted off upon their return to the Sanctum to see to its own ablutions. He soaked in the tub of hot water and Epsom salt for nearly 90 minutes, trying to put the pictures frozen in his mind of the battle and the wounded behind him. Fearing that sleep would still elude him once he finally went to bed.

In the wee hours before sunrise, he slipped carefully and quietly between the sheets, and by some lovely instinct, Hope turned to him. She stirred a bit when he placed her hand above his heart--for he always found that soothing--and after a few moments she whispered, "Missed you, magic man. Is everything alright?"

Stephen sighed in the darkness, unwilling to disturb her peace with the truth, and murmured 'yes', and then, 'I missed you too'. What he wanted most was to forget everthing for a little while, and when she rested her head on his shoulder, he nuzzled the tender haven of her hair, focusing on Hope's softness until he was able to drift off the sleep.

Stephen rarely indulged in the luxury of sleeping in, but this day it had been a necessity. Though he felt physically refreshed when he finally left his bedroom, his spirit was all too weary, and he remained disconsolate in his very bones. No matter the season, he would've felt this way following the outcome on Kilimanjaro--but somehow looking at Hope's cheery holiday trimmings made it even worse. When he found her in the kitchen baking cookies, the sweet sight of her, so incongruous with the miasma he was lost in, prompted him to issue her a fair but regretful warning.

She had just moved a batch of cookies onto a wire rack to cool, then turned to greet him--but her smile faltered the moment she saw the misery on his face. "It went badly, then." Stephen nodded, and then she was sliding her arms beneath his, holding him tight, murmuring against his neck. "I'm so sorry, Stephen. Do you...do you want to talk about it?"

He shook his head and simply held her close, grateful that she was his true and loving sanctuary. When they parted just a little, Stephen cleared his throat before speaking. "Hope...honey..." he began, cupping one hand against her cheek, "I really appreciate how patient you've been with me this past month. And I appreciate everything you've done to bring Christmas to our..." He paused when his voice cracked, taking a moment before continuing, "...to our home."

Empathetic as usual, Hope simply reached to cup his cheek in her hand, and he wished he could just let himself melt into the moment. "But I dunno if the miracle you're hoping for is gonna happen this year. The past few days were pretty rough and given that...and the ghosts of my Christmases past...well, I think it's best if you lower your expectations about the holiday. I don't want to disappoint you but...well...I'm not gonna be catching the Christmas spirit this year."

Hope sighed and turned her face enough to place a soft kiss on the base of his thumb. "It's alright, darling. I...I understand." She sighed and stood tall enough to kiss his mouth, then whispered against his lips, "Whatever you need, Stephen. However things go." She embraced him warmly, then moved enough so she could look him in the eyes. "I spent five Christmases wondering how things might have been if you had survived Thanos. I know what's most important to me now--so in the end, all I really want for Christmas is you."

Stephen managed a small but genuine smile. He had expected no less. Undaunted, Hope briskly changed the subject. "How about I fix you some lunch and you go unwind with some mindless television? I'll bring it right to you."

"Actually, there's a little something I want to take a look at in my study...if you don't mind too much..."

"Of course, of course," she answered gamely, then swatted him softly on his way, "Gourmet grilled cheese and tomato soup are the special today, and the only tip I require is a couple dozen kisses."

"You can add those to my tab, honey," Stephen chuckled, then headed down the hall to his study, grateful for the distraction which he knew awaited him on his desk. Getting lost for a little while in a recently discovered manuscript might be exactly what he needed to get through the day.

If you enjoyed this little fic so far, you can read more about how Stephen & Hope met and fell in love in my stories 'Friday in the Park with Stephen' (meet-cute, flirtation & fluff), and 14,000,604 (hurt/comfort, angst, passion/smut, lovers reunited against impossible odds).

In addition, I've written a couple of one-shots/prompt fills as part of their ongoing series, The Wizard and the Artist

tagging: @strangelock221b @mousedetective @icytrickster17 @ironstrange1991 @darsynia @ben-locked @hithertoundreamtof23 @aeterna-auroral-avenger @lorelei-lee @stewardofningishzida @thelostsmiles @mrs-cookie @paperclippedmime @groovyqueer @mckiwi @dragonqueen89 @strangeflashholmes221 @strangesunicornsparkle

[irondadfics]

Hi! I'm looking for a fic where peter is told by the school counselor to mark down in a tiny journal every time he wanted to call the person he lost in the blip (stark).The point was that eventually he would add less tally marks to the notebook as he moved on, but as time went on he kept adding marks to the journal. one day, peter gets a call from dr strange who says there's a way to bring back tony. later, they heal tony and peter gifts him the notebook with the tally marks. it was hurt/comfort

This is for you. Enjoy!

take me home by spqr

Peter has EDITH sweep the Sanctum for drones and projectors and unknown tech two dozen times before he forces himself to accept the fact that Tony is real. Tony is here. Tony is alive. Tony has been in a magical coma for five years and Dr. Strange never thought to tell anyone. Tony’s going to wake up. Tony’s going to look at Peter and probably smile and maybe even say, “Hey, Pete. Are those my glasses?”

[space-mermaid-writing]

Of monsters and men [IronStrange]

Summary: Some kidnappers fucked up big time and now Tony is bonded to this strange demon he continues to summon by accident.

Tags: demon!Stephen Strange, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Angst, Whump, body horror, protective Stephen Strange, Stephen Strange needs a hug

Author's note: This is one of those chapters that started with an idea of what I wanted to write but somewhere in between I lost control of it. I'm innocent, I swear. Just like Tony I couldn't prevent these things from happening like they did. Beta by@harpywritesfic and @kvjjjjjj.

Read it on AO3 | Masterlist | Word count: 3.3k | Previous | Next

Chapter 10: Demons of the past

“You said you wanted to show me something?” Stephen asked.

Tony had summoned him into his lab. The engineer had thought long and hard about it; if it was a good idea. In the end, he came to the conclusion that it wasn’t his choice to make.

“Yes. You see, you said you have trouble remembering stuff. You have these bits of your memory, and none of them explain how you became like this,” Tony vaguely gestured at the demon.

Stephen looked down at his own body. The cloak sat calmly on his shoulders. As soon as Stephen moved within proximity of Tony, it reached out to the human with its corner. Like greeting family; or like a curious cat.

The last few times they had met, Stephen had been fairly human looking – or at least more human looking than the demon Tony had seen back when he had been kidnapped.

There were no horns and the blur of his outlines was kept to a minimum. He looked almost recognizable from the photo in the file waiting for him to open.

“I think I found you,” Tony continued. “Your human life. I’m pretty sure, actually.”

Because Stephen said he had been human once. And the name matched as well as the photo.

“Jarvis and Friday put everything he found in a file. You can read it right now if you want. Or store it away for later. Or delete it altogether. It’s your call. I just thought you might want to know.”

Stephen had listened silently, his blue eyes piercing Tony. No matter how the demon’s appearance changed, his eyes maintained their intensity. It was reassuring as well as unnerving. Tony had never felt such a gaze in his soul before he met Stephen.

Stephen considered it, before he nodded. “I would like to read it now.”

Tony made a sign to one of Friday's cameras and several files appeared as holograms, scattered in front of Stephen.

It was everything the A.I.s had found about Doctor Stephen Vincent Strange, MD, PhD. From birth till when he vanished in Nepal.

Stephen’s eyes were immediately drawn to a photo that had been taken for some kind of medical magazine. He exhaled softly. “Oh.”

There was recognition in his voice; and sadness.

Tony knew the struggle of getting confronted with his own past. Only in his case, he made his peace with it. He tried to learn from his past self and thrived to do better.

It wasn’t the same for the demon.

“I was a doctor,” Stephen remembered.

“Yes,” Tony confirmed. He had read all of Stephen’s published papers. The man had been brilliant in his field. “A neurosurgeon. And a pretty impressive one.”

Stephen read the files backwards in the timeline, wanting to know more about his past, about his early human life. He soon forgot about Tony's presence and the engineer gave him space.

Piercing blue eyes darted over the paragraphs of texts, reading with incredible speed and absorbing information faster than humanly possible.

His eyes were moving almost frantically, but the rest of his body stood still like a statue. But the cloak on his shoulders was all the more active. It was writhing, almost nervously vibrating.

The air got colder with every passing minute.

Then Stephen reached the file about his family. “I had a sister,” he murmured.

Tony had read the file; he knew what had happened to that sister.

Something changed in Stephen's demeanor. His sound was commanding, when he spoke to Friday. “Show me the very last entry you’ve found about me.”

A hologram of the photo lit up with Stephen in the background. The doctor’s hair was shaggy, his beard long and unkempt. He wore a blue parka.

“It was taken in Nepal,” Tony chimed in.

“Kamar-Taj.”

“Not quite. Kathmandu.”

Stephen didn’t listen to him. It all came back to him now. Images were flashing in his head, snippets of his past life.

There was grief when the Ancient One had died.

Fear when the Sanctums had been attacked. First, London. Then New York and Hong Kong.

And then…

“Dormammu, I’ve come to bargain.” It was nothing more than a pained hiss. The sentence he had repeated so often. Over and over again, in every single time loop. The sentence was carved into his mind.

The Eye of Agamotto had been heavy around his neck. He still felt its weight – it was burned into his chest.

Tony spoke. Stephen heard something, but the white noise in his ears was louder. The edges in his field of vision flickered black and he had the feeling that something was pulling him off his feet.

Tony watched in horror as Stephen lost control.

Although the demon had a peculiar habit of altering its appearance every time he traversed the boundaries of his own dimension, it had remained a constant that once he set foot on Earth, he mostly stayed the way he was – apart from his height, which he adjusted from time to time.

But now, Tony watched with horrified awe as a startling change began to unfold before his very eyes. Horns began to sprout from Stephen's head, curling upwards and glimmering dark against the bright lights of the lab. They were imposing and regal for just a heartbeat – before they changed their form into a gnarled and jagged version.

Stephen's arms were morphing frequently, rippling and twitching in grotesque fluidity. One moment they appeared as muscular appendages. The very next, they twisted into the sharp and sinewy limbs of a predator.

From that they contorted further, now resembling the jagged limbs of an insect, before his hands were claws again.

“Dormammu, I’ve come to bargain,” he repeated, his voice oddly distorted.

“Stephen?” He didn't respond, so Tony, worried, tried again, this time louder. “Stephen!”

The cloak flared, crawling like a corrupt shadow. It grew like a plant that smothered and devoured everything beneath it, covering the tables of the lab with Tony's work.

Gone were the jittering tentacles or the recognition whenever it came near Tony.

The demon grabbed the table in front of him to have something to hold on. Suddenly, his head burst into a flame.

Tony jumped back in surprise. “Shit!”

There was still the outline of a head within the flame; a mouth and two eyes. Yet there was nothing human left.

“Dormammu, I’ve… ƀɇȼømɇ ɏøᵾ.”

DUM-E approached with the fire extinguisher, but Tony stopped him by raising a hand. He had no idea what was going on with Stephen and he didn’t want DUM-E to get any closer to him.

The hairs on the back of Tony's neck stood up. Everything about Stephen screamed danger. He was more demon-like than ever before.

Stephen must have noticed the bot's movement because he turned towards it. His body seemed to have slowly settled on one appearance. The constant shifting had stopped and he looked like he was more in control of himself again.

It was yet to be determined if that was a good thing or bad.

Tony moved in front of DUM-E, protecting his child. “Are you alright, Stephen?” he asked warily.

“Sŧɇᵽħɇn?” It sounded like several voices overlapped. The sound vibrated aggressively in Tony’s bones. “Ɨ Ⱥm nøŧ Sŧɇᵽħɇn. Nøŧ søłɇłɏ.”

“Who else are you then?”

There was a grotesquely wide grin from the flaming head. The demon approached Tony and the engineer had to force himself still and not stumble back.

“You wouldn’t be able to grasp the concept of me, łɨŧŧłɇ møɍŧȺł.”

That wasn’t ominous at all.

“Try me,” Tony said, because – as established – he had no sense of self preservation in the eye of this dangerous creature.

Stephen – no, the demon laughed and the sound clawed at the edges of Tony’s sanity. It felt like nails being dragged on a chalkboard. “You amuse me, ħᵾmȺn.”

His voice was oozing with malign sophistication that made Tony’s skin crawl.

With deliberate steps, the demon closed the distance between them, invading Tony’s personal space in a way that felt suffocating.

Tony couldn’t help but to instinctively take a step back.

It was unnerving. He had grown accustomed to a version of Stephen that was gentle and kind – a version who sought companionship.

This creature in front of him was unrecognizable from the demon he thought he knew.

The demon’s eyes glinted with a cruel satisfaction as he observed the unease radiating from Tony. He seemed to enjoy the engineer’s display of discomfort.

“Đøn’ŧ ƀɇ sħɏ, Ŧønɏ,” he cooed mockingly, leering closer. “I’ve tasted your blood. Ɨ knøw ɏøᵾɍ sɇȼɍɇŧs.”

There was an unsettling edge to his words. A reminder of the unholy connection that linked them.

Tony tried to think of a way to make the demon either give him his Stephen back, or to leave altogether.

Showing Stephen the files had obviously been a mistake. Yet Tony wasn’t sure, at which point it had gone wrong. Whatever had happened, it had triggered Stephen into becoming this.

Once again, it all came back to being Tony’s fault.

“Why don’t we take a moment to explore the true extent of the bond that ties us together?” the demon suggested. His tone was delightfully mocking and laced with a hint of allure.

However, Tony was aware of the underlying danger emanating from this creature.

"I'm curious how much power you really have over me. Stephen played nice in the past. Ɨ'm nøŧ łɨkɇ ŧħȺŧ."

The demon reached out with his now claw-like fingers. He lifted Tony’s chin, forcing their faces close enough that the heat radiating from the flickering flames of the demon’s head washed over the human.

"I command you to leave," Tony pressed between his teeth.

"Nice try," the demon responded with a throaty laugh that echoed off the walls. “I haven’t even been of sɇɍvɨȼɇ to you. Ⱥnđ Ɨ wøn’ŧ Ⱥȼȼɇᵽŧ Ⱥnɏ łøøᵽħøłɇs ɇɨŧħɇɍ.”

As the demon’s words hung in the air, the cloak’s tentacles slithered around Tony’s body, tightening their grip ever so slightly, asserting their control. Each movement emphasized how easily the balance of power had shifted between them.

“And just to be clear, you better come up with something good, something worth my time and energy,” the demon continued, his voice dropping into a dangerously low rumble. “Otherwise, I may decide that you have broken your side of the bargain. Now, that would end… nøŧ wɇłł for you."

Tony knew he had to think quickly and strategically; something he was usually good at. He didn’t trust this demon. Like a genie in a bottle who will twist his words and use them against him.

His mind raced like a computer, calculating his options. Until – finally – he had an idea. Admittedly, it wasn't a very good one. But there were worse.

“How about you provide some knowledge? That’s a service, right?”

The wide grin was back on the demon’s face. “That’s quite fitting for the DaVinci of our time.”

It looked like Stephen got his memories back. Tony’s face hardened. But is words actually helped Tony to distance his personal feelings for the former doctor from this creature in front of him. This was a business transaction. And this wasn’t the first shark Tony had done business with.

“What kind of knowledge could a ǥɇnɨᵾs want?”

It couldn’t be anything random, Tony knew that. It needed to be something that would entertain the demon. Something personal. Tony had just the thing. He didn't want to dig it up from the back of his mind, but at the same time this was an opportunity to get some actual explanation.

“It’s something I literally can’t ask anyone else.”

Intrigued, the demon crept closer. “Do tell. Are you asking Stephen the Mystic?”

“I’m asking you. New York, 2012. The portal to space.” It was still difficult for Tony to talk about it. Difficult to even think about it.

He had nightmares about drifting alone in space with no oxygen.

Tony got trouble breathing just thinking about it.

“I want to know what I saw on the other side.”

The army of aliens… everything…

“You have carried that question for a while with you. I can feel it weighs heavy on you,” the demon acknowledged.

Good, it seemed like Tony had made the right choice.

However, the demon’s next words made him pause.

“Let's re-watch what you saw.”

“What? No! …”

The engineer’s protest came too late. The demon performed some kind of magic and suddenly the lab around them disappeared, everything now pitch black.

Tony’s breath hitched. He noticed the faint light of stars all round him. Even under his feet. Was he even standing on solid ground, or was he floating in space?

Then he turned around, and saw the portal. Surrounded by the army, who were still waiting for their turn to attack Earth.

He remembered the portal being huge from up close. Big enough for the Chitauri’s ships to pass through. And it had swallowed Tony whole when he had pushed the nuke through.

Now it looked small, a little blue circle in the vast space.

Yet that fact did nothing to stop Tony’s panic from rising just from looking at it.

“This isn’t the first attack the Chitauri have fought for their general,” the demon explained, but Tony was barely listening. His throat was too tight to say anything anyway.

Suddenly he saw something appear from the other side of the portal: it was the Mark VII hanging onto the nuke.

He remembered the sudden difference in air pressure as he flew through. It had taken its toll on him, even in his suit. Back then, the Iron Man armor had not been designed to withstand deep space. His connection to Jarvis was broken, the A.I.’s voice merely a distorted sound until there was only silence.

The eerie silence in which he had fallen. He had let go of the nuke, it had continued on its own, while Tony had stayed behind. Slowly drifting in space.

Tony knew what was about to happen. He didn’t want to watch, yet he couldn’t avert his eyes. He forced himself to keep staring, to take it all in.

He had seen the Chitauri’s mother-ship. Bigger than he could have ever imagined.

He had seen the nuke explode; an orange beacon of destruction and hope. It was beautiful and terrifying. His brain had shut off somewhere in between.

But now, Tony was transfixed, unable to take his eyes off the aftermath he had never witnessed back then. He saw the burning ships and the aliens dropping dead. It was sort of a chain reaction.

The portal was closing and it didn’t look like his past self would even make it in time. Tony realized it was the shock wave from the explosion that had helped him make it home at the last second.

The portal was gone. The dead bodies of the aliens remained.

“Did you like what you saw, MɇɍȼħȺnŧ øf ĐɇȺŧħ?” The demon’s voice cut through the silence.

Tony was void of any emotion. He was empty, having split off the memory and the pain that went with it. It was as if he were just a bystander to the whole thing.

It felt like some of his senses shut off partially. He barely registered as the space disappeared and they were back in his lab.

The images were burned into his mind. Sure, the Chitauri had attacked Earth, it was only natural to fight back and defend his home. But what had happened up there had been a massacre. Thousands of lives wiped out in a single strike.

The nuke had been meant for New York. The hairs on the back of Tony's neck still raised at the idea that someone had been ready to sacrifice a whole city – not that it would have closed the portal and prevented the army from coming through.

It had been Fury who had warned them of the nuke. But Tony had made the decision to redirect it.

He had killed an entire army.

And he would do it again, if it meant it kept Earth safe.

His legs no longer held him up. He stumbled, tried to hold on to a table, but to no avail. He landed on the floor. Some tools he had accidentally swiped off the table landed loudly beside him.

“Boss,” Friday spoke up, concerned. “Your heart rate is jumping to 170 beats per minute and your adrenaline level is spiking.”

Tony didn’t breathe. There was air in his lungs, he just couldn’t get it out.

Mentally, he was still in space.

“Tony?” Stephen’s normal voice cut through the fog in the engineer’s brain.

Being a doctor first and foremost was anchored into the very core of Stephen's being. He might be a monster, but at heart he was still a healer. And it had been Tony who had guided the man who got lost in the Dark Dimension back to his core essence over the past few months. It had been Tony, who had shown him what it meant to be human.

The engineer gasped for air.

“Tony, you have to exhale.”

Stephen tried to regain control of his body. He took a step forward, but it felt like he was moving through sludge.

Dormammu clawed at his mind. He was having fun with the whole situation. Stephen felt it, and it made him angry. Stubbornly, he held his ground.

He hated that he couldn’t help Tony like he wanted to. Friday was doing her best to pull the engineer out of his panic.

“It’s 1:30 pm. The weather is at a pleasant 68 degree Fahrenheit with scattered clouds. You’re currently in your lab, Sir. Peter Parker agreed to come over after school, and Miss Potts is still waiting for your signature on those contracts she sent you.”

The A.I. was non-stop talking, trying to ground her creator.

Stephen crept closer to Tony. Suddenly, it was easier to move, and it made Stephen wary. He kept his guard up for whatever Dormammu might have planned. He felt him still watching. But Stephen's main focus remained on the engineer in front of him.

“Tony,” he gently said. “Breathe. You’re alright. Løøꝁ Ⱥŧ mɇ, łɨŧŧłɇ ħᵾmȺn.”

He curled back at his own distorted voice. Still, his urge to help Tony was stronger than any self-hate – for now.

He kneeled next to Tony.

“You still have eight episodes left of ‘Better Call Saul’ to watch, Sir. I took the liberty of restocking your popcorn supplies.”

Stephen put his hand on the small space between Tony’s rib cage and his arm. It was a technique used to guide unresponsive patients while they were on their feet.

With a panic attack such as Tony’s, Stephen normally put his hand on the patient’s chest, to shift their focus on breathing. But not with Tony Stark and the arc reactor in his chest.

Regaining most of his memory, Stephen remembered that some of the man’s medical files had been leaked. Of course he had taken a look at them out of curiosity, back when he still practiced.

Tony reacted instantly to the touch. He whipped his head to him; big, frantic eyes looking at him. The demon’s head was still aflame, with a vaguely skull shape in it.

Tony let out a pained noise and jerked back – but it had him finally breathing. It was short and ragged, but air flowed in and out of his lungs.

The engineer backed away until a lab table hit his back.

“Don’t…” he rasped, his voice no more than a hoarse whisper.

Stephen could smell the fear and the adrenaline in the air. It was sour and sweaty.

“Please…” Tony pleaded.

Those single words hurt Stephen; yet he understood. This was his fault. He wanted to help, but right now Tony was afraid of him. The only help he could provide was if he removed himself from the situation entirely, so that Tony would feel safer.

Stephen wasn’t a doctor anymore. He wasn’t even human. He was a monster.

“Friday,” he spoke up to the A.I. “Please inform Pepper.” Tony had often spoken of her. She could handle Tony in any situation. “He might need further medical assistance.”

He couldn't help noticing how Tony was watching him like the threat he was, while he tried to be as small as possible.

Stephen refrained from making another attempt to approach.

Instead he vanished.